


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 















THE VILLAGE AS SEEN FROM THE BLUFF. 



ENTERING 
INTO HIS OWN 

B y 

HOPE DARING 

Author of “To the Third Generation” 



AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY 

150 Nassau Street * « New York 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two Copies Received 


AUG 29 1903 



Copyright, 1903, 

By American Tract SoaETY. 


TO THE MEMORY 
OF A BELOVED MOTHER 
THE AUTHOR 
DEDICATES THIS VOLUME. 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. Alone in the World 





PAGE 

I 

II. 

A Lonely Child . 





II 

III. 

Home Again .... 





25 

IV. 

From Childhood to Youth . 




• 

36 

V. 

Assuming Responsibility 





47 

VI. 

A Solitary Life 





58 

VII. 

New Work .... 





70 

VIII. 

The Abbots .... 





81 

IX. 

A New Home 





93 

X. 

A Delightful Summer . 





105 

XI. 

The Second Winter at the Parsonage 




117 

XII. 

A Test 





129 

XIII. 

Crossing the Bar . . * . 





141 

XIV. 

Plans for the Future . 





153 

XV. 

“Greater Love Hath no Man” 





164 

XVI. 

One Night’s Vigil 





175 

XVII. 

The Passing of a Year . 




• 

187 

XVIII. 

Philip’s First Year at College 





199 

XIX. 

A Change in Philip’s Life . 




• 

211 

XX. 

Trouble 





222 

XXL 

A Broken Friendship . 





234 

XXII. 

A Period of Growth . 





245 

XXIII. 

Work by the Way 





258 

XXIV. 

Philip’s Own .... 





268 




ENTERING INTO HIS OWN, 


BY HOPE DARING. 


CHAPTER 1. 

ALONE IN THE WORLD. 

A.Y there! Say, Doctor Mills! Wake up I 
O say!^’ 

The words were accompanied by a vig- 
orous knocking on the door of the doctor's office. 
The knocking and the call were repeated. Soon 
there was a noise within, and a voice cried : 

^‘What's wanted?" 

‘‘It’s me, Joe Holmes. Ye’re wanted over to the 
Widder Graham’s. She is took worse.’’ 

The door opened. 

“Ah, you’ve a lantern,’’ the voice from the dark- 
ness within said. “Wait a minute, Joe, and I’ll be 
ready to go with you.’’ 

Doctor Mills slept in a room back of his office. 
He lighted a lamp and hurriedly made ready for his 
walk. 

“Rainin’," Joe said laconically. “If ye’re ’fraid 
of a little water ye better take an umbrelly." 


2 


Entering Into His Own 

‘‘You did not bring one,” and the doctor, button- 
ing himself into a greatcoat, stepped out into the 
darkness which the dim light from Joe’s lantern only 
faintly illumined. 

“Me ! Hu ! Me ’fraid of a little water ! Do ye 
’spose I’ve fished all over Lake Michigan fur fifty 
year — man and boy — and am ’fraid of water? Hu! 
After the big waves have gone over your boat fur 
two straight hours — well, a shower loses its scari- 
ness.” 

The doctor chuckled. For a few minutes the two 
men picked their way silently along the sodden 
street. The air was cold, although it was April. 
The ice in Lake Michigan was breaking up, but the 
wind that swept the water and the wooded shore 
was sharp and keen. The men followed the water’s 
edge, gradually leaving the village behind them. 
At last Doctor Mills asked : 

“How did you learn of Mrs. Graham’s illness? 
It must be after midnight.” 

“One o’clock. Little Phil come over to our house 
’fore dark, and my Mary Ann, she’s ben there ever 
sense. ’Bout an hour ’go she come home and 
routed me out of bed, said the widder was mighty 
bad.” 

Just then there came a gust of wind that almost 
took the breath of the two men. They paused a 
moment, and Doctor Mills spoke: 

“I had hoped she would last through this trying 
spring. Poor woman !” 

“Might better say poor Phil. She’s all right,” a 


Alone in the World 3 

little huskily, “but I’d like to know what’s goin’ to 
become of that poor baby.” 

“There must be relatives somewhere.” 

“If there is they air poor sticks, or they’d never let 
that little woman work as she has. I say. Doc, how 
long have ye ben in Harbor Springs ?” 

“Three years.” 

The tone was cold. Joe Holmes knew that the 
doctor was strangely reticent regarding his past, but 
the fisherman was too deeply interested in the sub- 
ject under discussion to think of that. He hurried 
on. 

“It’s four year sense Graham died. Phil was two 
then, and the Grahams had lived here two year ’fore 
he was born. It was easy to see they wasn’t any poor 
trash. When they come here they had everything 
rich folks have ’cept money. Of that air there was 
jest ’nugh to buy that twenty acres of land out there 
and put up a better house than most of us have. 
Graham’s name was Julian, and we never give him a 
nickname, as we always do the boys. He was a 
right good feller, but he was a poet, and I don’t 
’spose he could help it.” 

While Joe talked the two men had plodded on in 
the rain. Again they halted. Only a few paces 
ahead stood the cottage, a bright light shining from 
the windows. Doctor Mills waited for Joe to finish 
the tragical tale, all the time conscious of the restless 
seething of the dark water so near. 

“Ye see, Graham’s folks had shipped him, ’cause 
he married her. No one could blame him, fur she 


4 Entering Into His Own 

was prettier’n a picture in them days. But they 
couldn’t live on prettiness nor on love, so Julian took 
to fishin’. Hu ! Think of a poet tryin’ to catch fish ! 
But he was such a good feller that we helped him out. 
He raised a garden, and they lived somehow or 
ruther and was happy. Then the baby come, and it 
was like a story. All of a sudden Julian took sick 
and died. Sense that his widder has managed to 
earn bread fur herself and the little ’un. And 
now — ” 

He stopped abruptly. Doctor Mills made no re- 
sponse but strode forward, ascending the steps which 
led up to a wide porch. Before he could knock the 
door was thrown open. 

‘T heard you cornin’.” The kindly-faced woman 
was Joe’s wife. ‘‘She is bad, too bad I guess fur 
you to help.” 

The doctor drew off his wet overcoat. The large 
and low sitting-room was neatly furnished. It held 
two huge cases which were filled with books. Back 
of the apartment in what was apparently a small 
dining-room a wood fire blazed in the stone fire- 
place. 

Doctor Mills advanced to the door of a sleeping- 
room which opened at his right. As he crossed the 
threshold a childish voice cried: 

“Oh, it is the good doctor! You will help my 
mother, won’t you. Doctor Mills?” 

Upon the bed lay a woman still young but emaci- 
ated and faded. There were still traces of beauty 
on her wan face, and her large black eyes were brill- 


Alone in the World 3 

iant. Close at her side, one hand resting on her 
arm, was a boy of six. 

“Philip, you ought to be in bed,” the doctor said 
with an attempt at severity. 

“Why, I can’t leave my mother. She would — ” 

The sick woman’s voice interrupted him. 

“Go out in the other room for a little time, my son. 
I want to talk to Doctor Mills.” 

Gently the physician lifted the child from the bed. 
Philip was sturdy with a fair, freckled face, ques- 
tioning blue eyes, and closely-clipped flaxen hair. 
His features were finely cut, and he carried his head 
well back. 

“I’ll come back soon, little mother,” he said in a 
clear treble. 

Left alone with the physician, Mrs. Graham began 
feebly, “Doctor Mills, I am dying. You have been 
very kind to me. Others have been kind, but, because 
something about you reminds me of my own past life, 
I am going to tell you of that past and bespeak your 
continued kindness for my son — my darling boy — 
whom I must leave alone in the world.” 

Doctor Mills held a glass to her lips. “I shall be 
glad to do anything I can for the lad, but talking 
tires you.” 

“I must say these few words, though. Our home 
was in the East, near Buffalo. I was a poor girl, a 
country school-teacher, and without near relatives. 
My husband was motherless, but his father was 
living, and he had an elder brother. They were 
wealthy and very proud. Julian was unlike the Gra- 


6 Entering Into His Own 

hams, being dreamy and imaginative. After leaving 
college his father wished him to study law, but he 
shrank from it. About that time we met. Julian 
loved me, notwithstanding my lowly birth and pov- 
erty. His father was angry, and, when we were 
married, forbade Julian the house. We came west, 
drifted about for a time, and finally settled here. 
Julian knew little of the world. He loved to write, 
but sold few articles. We were happy if we were 
poor. My husband died when Philip was two years 
old. Of my life since you know.^’ 

The doctor bowed his head in assent, and she 
went on : 

‘^Can you imagine what the thought of leaving 
Philip has been to me? I wrote to his grandfather, 
begging for the child as I never could have begged 
for myself. All the reply I received was my letter 
returned to me. I was rebellious then, crying out 
that I could not die and leave my baby. But the God 
in whom I had long trusted did not fail me. Gradu- 
ally I yielded my will to him. Love and trust re- 
turned to me. I do not know how it will be done, 
but God will care for my son. He will come to be 
what his father and I planned to make of him.” 

She paused for breath. After a few minutes Doc- 
tor Mills asked : 

‘‘Are there no friends to whom he can be sent?” 

“No. There is no property save this little place. 
I have money enough to settle up everything but 
your bill. Doctor Mills, will you not sell Julian’s 
library and pay yourself out of the proceeds ? Many 


Alone in the World 7 

of the books are valuable ones. I had hoped to keep 
them for Philip, but it cannot be.’’ 

Doctor Mills bent over the bed. “Mrs. Graham, 
I wish I was a better man, wish it for Philip’s sake 
as Pve never wished it for my own. If you desire 
it I will become your son’s guardian. I cannot give 
him a home, for I have none, but I will see that he 
does not suffer. As for the library, I will take it in 
payment for my bill, and when Philip is a man it 
shall be his.” 

“Oh, you are too good! I must not accept so 
much from you,” she murmured, tears flowing down 
her cheeks. 

For a moment the silence in the room was broken 
only by the dashing of the rain against the windows. 
Then Doctor Mills spoke, laying one hand upon that 
of the dying woman. 

“Mrs. Graham, do not feel that way. My life 
stretches behind me — a desert. Before me I see 
naught but a barren waste. If I can do any good — 
well, it may atone for my wasted years.” 

They talked a few minutes longer. Then Mrs. 
Graham, who was very tired, fell asleep. The doc- 
tor’s promise had soothed her. While she knew little 
of the man she trusted him. 

Doctor Mills had come to Harbor Springs three 
years before. He was a man of thirty-five. Of 
his past he never spoke. Opening an office, he 
had secured a fair practice, for he was an excellent 
physician. His life was a lonely one; he received 
few social invitations, and those few were declined. 


8 Entering Into His Own 

The hours of the night wore away. Mrs. Graham 
alternately slept and waked. Philip had re-entered 
the room and lay by his mother’s side, sleeping when 
she did. Joe, his wife, another woman and the 
doctor remained at the house. 

Slowly the gray dawn crept over the earth. Mrs. 
Graham opened her eyes and called feebly : 

“Philip ! Dear boy, where are you ?” 

“Right here, mother. Did you think I would 
leave you ?” 

Her arms closed convulsively round him. 
“Darling, it is mother who is going away. I must 
leave you and go to your father. Doctor Mills 
will be your friend. You must be a good boy and 
grow up to be a good man. Promise me you 
will.’’ 

Philip’s lips quivered. “I’ll be good, mother, but 
I don’t want you to go away. It is so much easier 
to be good when you are here. No one will love me 
when you are gone.” 

“My love will always be yours. Remember, 
Philip, when you are sad and lonely that mother 
loves you. God’s love is yours, too. Trust and 
obey him, dear. He will lead you into your rightful 
place in the world if you will let him. A useful, 
honorable, and upright manhood is yours, Philip — 
God’s own gift to you, and he — ” 

A paroxysm of coughing interrupted her and 
shook her slender form. Doctor Mills saw that the 
end was near. He lifted the child from the bed. 

“Run away, Philip.” 


Alone in the World 9 

Mrs. Graham held out her arms for one last em- 
brace. Brokenly she murmured: 

'‘God watch over and keep my treasure! Into 
thy hands, O God, do I commit my son and his fu- 
ture!” 

An hour later Doctor Mills emerged from the cot- 
tage. All was over. Philip, unable to understand 
the mysterious change that had come to his mother, 
had cried himself to sleep. The doctor left Mrs. 
Holmes in charge, promising to return in a short 
time. 

Outside the rain had ceased. The sky was over- 
cast, and the sun showed, yellow and dull, through 
light clouds. A strong breeze from the bay had 
lifted the mist and sent it far inland. 

Doctor Mills walked slowly, his head bent as if 
lost in thought. He must make a call before return- 
ing to the village, so he had made his way up the 
steep wooded bluff which lay a little way back from 
the shore. When he had reached the summit of this 
height the doctor halted and stood looking down on 
the scene below him. 

Harbor Springs is situated on the shore of Little 
Travers Bay, and this bay is at the northern end of 
Lake Michigan. At that time the principal part of 
the village lay close along the shore, although many 
houses were built upon the bluff. West of the town 
the shore curved far out into the bay in a narrow line. 
This projection is known as Harbor Point, and 
from where Doctor Mills stood he could look across 
it to the waters of Lake Michigan. 


lo Entering Into His Own 

The face of the physician grew sad. It was a 
florid face partly covered by a stubby red beard. In 
figure the doctor was short and heavy. He had 
frank gray eyes and red hair. 

'Tt’s a different life from the one I planned for,” 
he muttered. “A dull village inhabited by fisher- 
men, lumbermen, and Indians. Here I am, buried 
for life. Buried but still alive, for surely the dead 
forget.” 

The death scene he had just witnessed rose up 
before him. Margaret Graham had not looked for 
forgetfulness. Her love would live beyond the 
grave. 

‘T will not think of that,” with an impatient shrug 
of his shoulders. “Such a belief is not for me. 
Not for me any more than was such a love as that 
she bore her husband. The question is — what am 
I to do with this boy? I am not good enough to 
take him into my care — how far from being good 
enough no one but myself knows. Then my prac- 
tice brings me only enough for my own few wants. 
Well, I’ve promised, and I must find some way to 
give the lad a roof and bread. That’s enough.” 

He had resumed his walk. Suddenly he stopped, 
a frown furrowing his brow. 

“Enough for some. Unless I’m mistaken, 
though, the child is not of that class. What will 
his future be?” 


CHAPTER 11. 


A LONELY CHILD. 

M rs. graham was buried by the side of 
her husband. Philip’s grief was touching. 
He mourned with a steadfast, silent sorrow 
that was strangely at variance with his childish 
years. Until some arrangements could be made, the 
Holmes family opened their door to him. Doctor 
Mills, knowing the kind hearts of the fisherman and 
his wife, asked them if they would not care for the 
lad, provided some slight recompense was made 
them. They were obliged to refuse, for their little 
home was already crowded. 

Doctor Mills lost no time in keeping the promise 
he had made. The legal proceedings necessary to 
make him Philip’s guardian were begun at once. 
There was no trouble about this, for no other person 
seemed willing to take the responsibility. 

One evening two weeks after the death of Mrs. 
Graham, Doctor Mills was seated in his office. He 
was glancing over the day’s paper before going for 
his supper. 

The day had been unusually warm, and the outside 
door stood ajar. From the doctor’s seat he could 
see directly across the little wharf out to the bay. 


12 Entering Into His Own 

A step at the door caused the reader to glance up. 

“Ah, Deacon Ashley! Good evening,’' and the 
doctor rose with the courtesy he always gave others. 
“Will you sit down?” 

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” the deacon said in a 
slow, drawling voice. “Fact is. Doc, I’ve come to 
talk with you.” 

Deacon Ashley was a tall, gaunt man of sixty. 
He sat down, depositing his rusty hat upon the floor 
and glanced round the little office. 

“Doctoring must be paying business. I said to 
my wife the other day, said I, ‘Doc Mills must be 
making a pile of money.’ ” 

The doctor pulled savagely at his short beard. “I 
make enough to keep me out of the poorhouse, if I 
could get it. Now there’s that bill of — ” 

“Fact is I come to talk to you ’bout something 
else,” the deacon interrupted his host to say. “I 
mean that Graham boy. It surprised me to hear 
that you are trying to be his guardian. I’d about 
concluded that it was my duty to take him. It 
would be pure charity, for the land is poor, and the 
things in the house are no good.” 

“Do you think so? There are six hundred 
books, and some of them are very valuable.” 

The deacon shook his head. “One couldn’t get 
much money out of ’em. It will be years before 
the boy can earn his keep. If I have him bound 
to me until he is eighteen it will be just because of 
my sense of duty. The widow and fatherless, you 
know.” 


A Lonely Child 13 

Doctor Mills looked searchingly into the speak- 
er’s face. “I promised Mrs. Graham that I would 
be her son’s guardian. However, there is a chance 
for you to do what you are pleased to call your duty. 
You are a rich man. Receive this orphan into your 
home for a few years.” 

‘'A rich man! How can you think that? An 
invalid wife and three small children are enough to 
beggar any man. However, I am willing to sacri- 
fice my own interests. I’ll take the boy for the use 
of the place and two dollars a week.” 

Doctor Mills did not turn his eyes from the bay. 
The sun was setting, and the water was flushed with 
vivid red. 

“Who is to pay the two dollars a week?” 

“Who? Why, you. You are to be his guar- 
dian.” 

“Allow me to say that your duty comes high. 
Now let us talk plainly. I want this boy boarded 
out in the country. Whoever takes him must treat 
him well. I’ll pay you one and one-half dollars a 
week for Philip’s board. What do you say?” 

“I’ll do it, but it’s dirt cheap.” The deacon 
picked up his hat. “You give me the key, and I’ll 
stop and see if there is anything worth moving.” 

John Mills’ eyes blazed. “Not so fast. You are 
not to have the use of the house nor of a single thing 
in it.” 

“What? In fact, I—” 

“There’s my proposition. You can accept it or 
not, as you please.” 


14 Entering Into His Own 

Deacon Ashley blustered, but in the end he ac- 
cepted the offer. The doctor agreed to bring Philip 
out to the farm in a few days. 

He did so. The child bade the Holmes family 
good-by with an apathetic indifference, but he 
turned to look wistfully at the cottage where all his 
life had been spent. 

“Please, Doctor Mills, Pd rather live here, even 
without mother,” and his face worked convulsively. 
“Somehow when Pm at home I can make believe 
she’s not far away.” 

“But you can’t stay here alone, my lad,” the 
doctor said kindly. “You will like it at the 
farm.” 

“Can you see that from the farm ?” Philip asked, 
pointing to the bay. “Next to mother I love that 
best.” 

“What a queer little fellow he is!” the doctor 
thought. “He is indeed the son of a poet.” 

Aloud he said, “I am sorry, Philip, but you can- 
not see the bay from Ashley Farm. However, you 
will find horses, calves, lambs and chickens there, 
besides some children who are only a little younger 
than you are.” 

Philip sighed. They had ascended the bluff, 
passed the rows of houses bordering it, and were 
driving along a road shaded by tall oaks, hemlocks 
and pines. The child looked up through the inter- 
lacing boughs to the blue sky and asked: 

“Will I never go back to my home and the 
water?” 


A Lonely Child 15 

The tone was so sad and hopeless that Doctor 
Mills started. 

'‘Philip, it is your home, your very own. I will 
keep it for you. When you are a man you can live 
there.” 

“Thank you, sir. You shall live with me, and 
ril take care of you, just as you are taking care of 
me. 

They rode on in silence. Doctor Mills knew lit- 
tle of children ; notwithstanding his interest in 
Philip he was often ill at ease in the boy’s pres- 
ence. 

Ashley Farm was four miles from the village. It 
was large and well tilled, and the buildings were 
in good condition. 

The deacon came down to the gate to meet the 
new-comers. 

“How do. Doc. We’ll put your horse in the 
barn, and you must stay to dinner. Mrs. Ashley 
is complaining again, and, as long as you are here, 
you’d as soon leave her some medicine in a neigh- 
borly instead of a professional way. So this is the 
boy. Not strong. In fact, Doc, it will be a long 
time before he can earn his board.” 

“All the better for you, as you are to be paid for 
it while he cannot. See here. Deacon Ashley,” the 
doctor went on in a lower tone as they walked tow- 
ard the barn, Philip lagging in the rear, “there is 
to be no underfeeding and overworking in this case. 
You are to treat Phil well.” 

The deacon put on an injured look. “I am sur- 


i6 Entering Into His Own 

prised. You wrong me, for I am a deacon and a 
father. In fact, I know all about children/’ 

'It would take a wiser man than you and I put to- 
gether to know all about that child. I want him 
to live out of doors and be happy.” 

Mrs. Ashley was the deacon’s second wife. She 
was only twenty-eight and was the mother of his 
three children. The deacon’s wife was broken both 
in health and spirits. She was peevish and fret- 
ful, indulging her own children, but most exacting 
regarding every other person. 

Of the children Gloria was five, Gustavus three, 
and Victoria two. Philip was inclined to be afraid 
of them all with their loud voices and rough ways. 
He tried to keep away from them, but Mrs. Ashley 
bade him "take care of Victoria,” and faultfinding 
was his only reward for his clumsy but well-meant 
efforts in that direction. 

Philip was very unhappy at Ashley Farm. No 
one understood the imaginative child. His mother 
had been his chief companion. She had taught 
him much regarding animals, birds and plants. He 
loved those things with a strange intensity. It sur- 
prised and grieved him to see the indifference of the 
deacon’s household to the charms of nature. Be- 
cause he saw that he was not understood the child 
grew silent and moody. 

The pain of knowing that he was not loved hurt 
him even more than being misunderstood. Philip 
saw that it would be useless to look to the deacon 
for affection. Notwithstanding Mrs. Ashley’s 


A Lonely Child 17 

crossness he turned hopefully to her. Was She not 
the children’s mother? To Philip that word meant 
all that was lovable and loving. It took but a few 
days to show him his mistake. Whatever love 
there might be in Mrs. Ashley’s nature there was 
none for him. 

The children were a little better. At times Gloria 
slapped him, while the younger ones indulged in 
kicks and bites, but there were hours when they 
played together with some degree of pleasure. 

“But folks are not as good as things. Rover, not 
some folks,” Philip confided to the dog one summer 
afternoon when the two were lying in the shade of 
a great maple. “If it wasn’t for things and for re- 
membering about mother, well, I guess I’d die 
too.” 

His arms were clasped round the dog’s neck. 
Boy and dog lay still. Philip’s eyes were fixed 
upon the leaves dancing so gayly above his head. 
To him they were living and joyful things. 

“It’s the wind from the bay — my own dear bay — 
that makes you dance,” he crooned, a smile com- 
pletely changing his face. “You love the wind so 
well that when you hear his voice you jump for joy. 
And the sunbeams are your friends and come every 
day to play with you.” 

“Eh ! What’s that ? Who are you talking to ?” 

It was the deacon’s voice. He was crossing the 
yard and had heard Philip speak. 

The child’s face reddened. He sat up, one hand 
still clinging to Rover’s neck. 


i8 Entering Into His Own 

“Nobody. That is, nobody much. I was talk- 
ing to the leaves.” 

“The leaves! Such silliness! And at first you 
tried to deny it. Now see here, Phil Graham, 
there’s a big whip out at the barn for boys who tell 
lies. You keep on as you are now, and you’ll never 
go to heaven. You better look out.” 

He strode on, shaking his head threateningly. 
Philip lay back on the grass, his tiny form shaking 
with rage. 

“I hate him! It wasn’t a lie, for leaves are no- 
body. Oh, my mother! I do want her!” and he 
broke into a fit of sobbing. 

There was no one to hear but Rover. The faith- 
ful dog licked the face of his little friend, and the 
leaves sang their sweetest lullabies until the child, 
worn out by crying, fell asleep. 

Philip had never been to school, although he 
could read well. The deacon talked much of Mrs. 
Graham’s neglect in keeping her son at home. 
When school commenced that fall Philip began at- 
tendance. 

“Mind now you learn,” was the deacon’s part- 
ing injunction. “You’ll have to quit school soon 
and go to work. In fact, you ought to be at work 
now.” 

School was not quite so dreary as the farmhouse. 
Philip cared little for the boys’ games, and he was 
teased and bullied by some of his mates. The teach- 
ers were kind to the little orphan, often coming 
nearer to understanding him than had any one since 


A Lonely Child 19 

his mother’s death. Then many of the children 
shared Philip’s love for the outdoor world. 

Time went by slowly. It was only at rare inter- 
vals that Doctor Mills came to the farmhouse. At 
Christmas he sent Philip a sled and a book. The 
physician also bought the boy’s clothes. 

Doctor Mills insisted that his bill for medical at- 
tendance upon the Ashleys should be allowed upon 
Philip’s board. This was agreed to by Deacon Ash- 
ley only after a long and angry discussion. The 
deacon did not hesitate to taunt Philip with his de- 
pendence. 

‘‘You’re no better than a thief,” he would say. 
“The victuals you eat ought to go to my children. 
I should think you would be ashamed.” 

“I wish I didn’t have to eat,” Philip confided to 
Rover. “Oh, I wish I didn’t have to live!” 

When summer came Doctor Mills sent for Philip 
and kept him a week at the village, allowing him to 
visit the cottage and play on the beach. It was a 
time of perfect happiness for the child. 

“You shall come again next summer,” the doc- 
tor said when he was taking Philip back to the farm. 
“When you are older I’ll manage some way to keep 
you at the village. I suppose Deacon Ashley is 
good to you. He never beats you, does he?” 

“Oh, no ! He — well, I guess he is as good as he 
knows how to be.” 

Doctor Mills laughed. “That’s hard on a deacon. 
If he ever abuses you let me know.” 

The year went by much as had its predecessor. 


20 Entering Into His Own 

As Philip grew older the deacon began to tax his 
strength with tasks too heavy for him. Mrs. Ash- 
ley was more querulous and impatient than ever. 

Doctor Mills did not mean to be neglectful re- 
garding his self-imposed charge. He did not think 
the deacon would dare to ill-treat Philip. The doc- 
tor was constantly haunted by the memory of his 
past and sought forgetfulness in a way that caused 
him to neglect other things. 

Philipps second summer at Ashley Farm held a 
great disappointment for him. All the year he had 
looked forward to his promised stay at the village. 

After the close of school the boy used to say to 
himself each morning on waking, “Doctor Mills 
may come this very day.” 

Day after day went by. Philip waited at first 
with a simple, trusting faith. At last he began to 
fear. 

“If he should forget!” he would whisper. “Oh, 
I don^t believe I could stand that I” 

The message never came. The child bore the 
disappointment not with resignation but, as many 
older persons bear sorrow, because there was no 
way of escape. 

He cherished no resentment towards the doctor. 
It was only that his sadness increased, and his lone- 
liness bore a little more heavily upon his spirit. 

Another year went by. Philip was nine years 
old. His eyes contained a strange, dreamy look. 
With his imaginative temperament Deacon Ashley 
had no patience. 


21 


A Lonely Child 

*‘He’s lazy,” he used to declare. “The fact is it’s 
my duty to take it out of him, and I think I’m the 
man to do my duty,” with a closing of his thin lips 
that made one think the deacon was the man to 
relish doing a disagreeable duty. 

Still he never beat Philip. Occasionally there 
would be a single sharp blow or a push. Deacon 
Ashley was more than half afraid of Doctor Mills. 

One July morning the deacon was getting ready 
to drive to Harbor Springs. He was in a bad hu- 
mor and scolded Philip, who was helping him har- 
ness. 

“Mind you water the calves and feed the chickens, 
you lazy brat. You don’t earn your salt. I’m go- 
ing to see Doctor Mills to-day, and if he don’t pay 
me what he owes me for your board. I’ll take it out 
of you.” 

Philip swallowed once or twice as the deacon 
drove off. The child was proud, and to be taunted 
with his dependence always hurt him. 

The deacon was gone all day. In the afternoon 
the children were all at play under the maples. 
Philip had been telling a story, his embellished re- 
membrance of the Grecian myth of Narcissus which 
his mother used to relate to him. 

When the story was finished the younger children 
ran off. Gloria sat still, a look of abstraction upon 
her little round face, At last she said: 

“I wonder what makes you so different from us. 
Pa says you’re lazy and won’t never grow up to be 
a man like him. What will you be?” 


22 Entering Into His Own 

Philip sat with his arms clasped round his knees. 
A curious sparkle came into his eyes. 

“Pll be a man like — well, I don’t know who I will 
be like, but I want to be like the trees and the bay. 
I mean — ” 

He paused, and Gloria asked wonderingly: 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean I’ll be — well, I guess 'natural’ is the 
word our teacher would use. I’ll grow and make 
people who love me glad. And I’ll live at home, 
close by the water.” 

“That’s a horrid place,” Gloria cried testily. “If 
I live with you you’ll have to have a nice house up 
town.” 

Just then the little girl’s mother called her. She 
ran off, and Philip sat still. The sunlight, falling 
through the wind-tossed leaves, flecked his face 
with alternate light and shadow. 

Gloria’s words had brought to his mind his dying 
mother’s counsel. What was it she had expected 
him to become ? 

“She said there was a good place in the world for 
me and that God would lead me into it,” Philip said 
to himself. “Oh, I wish it would be soon! I’m 
so tired waiting! Sometimes I forget about trust- 
ing him. Things are so different now.” 

The child was not able to understand that what 
he called the difference was largely the result of 
Deacon Ashley’s unfaithful life. The man knelt at 
the family altar when his heart was filled with bit- 
terness and his mind was occupied with plans to get 


A Lonely Child 23 

the best of some person with whom he had business 
dealing. 

It was nearly sundown when the deacon reached 
the farm. He called Philip to come to the barn, 
and the lad knew Deacon Ashley was cross. 

At the sight of the man's face Philip started back 
in terror. It was livid with rage, and the lips were 
drawn back from the teeth like those of an angry 
dog. 

“What — what’s the matter?” the child asked. 

“You’ll find out. Step lively here and help me 
unharness.” 

He did not speak again until the horses were in 
their stalls. Then he took a whip from the wall and 
said in a low, hissing voice : 

“That villain Mills owes me sixty-five dollars for 
your board. What did he do to-day but hand me 
a note I’d given Jim Harris — a note I never in- 
tended to pay, and Jim didn’t know enough to make 
me do it. The fool of a doctor took the note in 
payment for his bill and told me if I didn’t allow it 
on his debt to me, he’d bring action against me. I 
will—” 

He stopped, choking with rage. Philip tried to 
slip out of the door, but the deacon caught his arm. 

“I’ll make you smart for it,” bringing the whip 
down upon the child’s thinly-clad shoulders. “Take 
that and that !” 

Blow followed blow. After the first wild cry of 
terror Philip made no sound. The sense of pain 
was swallowed up in an anger and a consciousness 


24 Entering Into His Own 

of injustice. After a score of fierce blows Deacon 
Ashley threw the child from him with so much force 
that he fell against the side of the barn. 

‘‘Take yourself off, you little fool ! I’ll have you 
here no longer,” and he walked away. 

After a minute Philip sat up. His breath came 
in gasps, but his eyes were dry and tearless. 

“I hate him! I’ll go as he told me and I will 
never, never come back. Yes, I’ll go home.” 

He left the barn. No one was in sight, and the 
child made his way to the road and started on a run, 
through the fast-gathering darkness, for the village. 


CHAPTER III. 


HOME AGAIN. 

P hilip ran on and on until he was exhausted. 
At last he stopped to rest. It was a quiet 
spot where the road passed through a stretch 
of forest land. Selecting a place where the trunk 
of a great tree hid him from the road, the tired child 
sank down and closed his eyes. 

For a time he was too excited to think. Gradu- 
ally he grew calmer. At last he sat up and looked 
about him. 

Darkness had fallen while he lay there. There 
was still a faint glow in the western sky, but straight 
overhead, where the road outlined a cleared space, 
a few faint stars looked down. All was still save 
for the occasional far-away call of some night bird. 
The air was cool, as the evening air always is in 
that northern land. 

Philip felt no fear. He loved nature too well to 
distrust her. A strange sense of exaltation thrilled 
him. He was alone, but he was free. That was 
not all ; he was going home. 

'T am free, free,’’ he said aloud, stretching his 
arms up towards the great oak that towered over 
him. ‘‘You know what that means, you noble tree! 


26 Entering Into His Own 

I will never go back. I am free, as you and the bay 
are free.” 

At the thought of the water he started up. He 
must hasten on. His home was waiting for him. 

The child grew very tired before he reached the 
end of his journey. He had had no supper, and the 
welts upon his back, made by the strokes of the 
whip, smarted and burned. Yet as he trudged on 
his heart was light. 

“It’s my home, and I’ll stay there. I can catch 
fish and pick berries. Then I’m big enough to find 
some kind of work to do. Doctor Mills has taken 
care of me long enough. Oh, it will seem so good 
to be at home !” 

He did not pass through Harbor Springs but de- 
scended the bluff east of the village. The road led 
straight down to the beach, and Philip soon reached 
the cottage. 

Before that time a full moon had appeared above 
the eastern horizon, lighting up the water with a 
soft silvery radiance. Directly in front of the 
house there was a small grove of scrubby cedars and 
birches, and a little at one side stood a large pine. 
The trees were separated from the water by a stretch 
of pebbly and sandy beach. There were no houses 
to the east, the country being still covered with a 
growth of forest trees. To the west lay the village, 
a few twinkling lights marking its situation. At 
the extreme edge of Harbor Point and almost oppo- 
site the cottage stood a lighthouse. The light shone 
out brightly, seeming to Philip like a welcome. 


Home Again 27 

He approached the house and sat down on the 
steps leading up to the veranda. The windows 
were covered with board shutters, and he knew it 
would be impossible for him to enter. That did 
not trouble him. He was at home, and he passed 
his hand caressingly over the floor of the porch. 
Besides, stretched out before him was the water he 
loved so well. 

There was little wind. The waves broke regu- 
larly against the beach, their soft murmur making 
sweetest music in Philip’s ears. Here and there the 
moonlight flashed brightly upon the crest of a wave. 
From the distance came the merry voices and songs 
of a boating party, and the child heard the whistle 
of a steamer at the Petoskey wharf, a few miles 
away. 

'T am so glad, so glad! O mother, I am sure 
you are glad, too!” and Philip turned his face up- 
ward, tears of joy standing in his eyes. 

He made his way down to the water’s edge, bath- 
ing his hands and face in the incoming waves and 
letting them break against his bare feet and legs. 
Soon he began to shiver with cold. 

‘Tf she was up there, waiting for me with a fire 
and supper, like some boys’ mothers!” he thought 
as he walked back to the house. '‘But it’s better 
to be here than anywhere else.” 

Philip was very cold. He laid down on the ver- 
anda, close to the front door. 

It was a long time before sleep came, blotting out 
his cold and hunger. The child listened content- 


28 Entering Into His Own 

edly to the murmur of the waves on the beach. At 
last he slept, watched over by the calm, serene moon 
and by the God to whom his dying mother had en- 
trusted him. 

The night passed. A faint yellow flush in the 
eastern sky deepened to pink and soon burned to 
flaming red and gold. The sound of the water 
breaking on the shore and the murmur of the faint 
breeze among the trees was mingled with the 
glad matins of countless wild birds. Still Philip 
slept. 

Along the beach came a solitary figure, a heavily- 
built man who walked briskly. It was Doctor Mills, 
who was on his way to make an early call upon a 
very sick patient who lived a little way inland. 

'T don’t like to get out as early as this,” he mur- 
mured with an appreciative glance round him. 
“This beauty and freshness bring to my mind the 
days when life was new, and I — ” 

He stopped, a frown furrowing his brow. “Don’t 
be a worse fool than common, John Mills. It’s bad 
enough to shatter your ideals and waste your life 
without forever whining over it. It relieved me 
yesterday to free my mind to that old hypocrite. 
Deacon Ashley. I must see Phil soon. That home 
is no place for the lad.” 

He was just opposite the cottage. As the doc- 
tor’s eyes rested on the house Philip stretched and 
threw up his hands. 

“What’s that? It looks like a child.” 

He hurried up the grass-grown walk. Philip sat 


Home Again 29 

up, rubbing his eyes. The unusual surroundings 
bewildered him. 

'‘Eh! Why, Philip Graham! Where did you 
come from?” 

“You, Doctor Mills?” The boy’s face grew 
bright. “Deacon Ashley drove me away last night, 
so I came home.” 

“Drove you away ! Do you mean that you spent 
the night here, alone and in the cold?” 

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t mind that.” 

The doctor sat down upon the steps. Philip’s 
pleasure at seeing him touched the heart of the lonely 
man, but the neglect of the boy’s welfare angered 
him. 

“Tell me all about it, lad.” 

Philip told the story of the deacon’s home-com- 
ing, told it with a flushed face and quickened breath. 
Doctor Mills grew pale, but he made no comment. 
After baring the child’s back and examining the 
ridges made by the whip, he exclaimed : 

“The brute! I’ll settle with him! Phil, I’ve 
been a brute myself to neglect you as I have. Never 
go back there, did you say? Indeed you shall not. 
We’ll find some way.” 

“Please, Doctor Mills, I can manage,” Philip said 
bravely, although his lips quivered. “Let me have 
the key, and I’ll stay here. Why, it’s home, and 
I’m so glad to be here! I can eat fish and berries, 
and I can work. You have no idea how much I 
used to do for Deacon Ashley.” 

“I presume not.” Doctor Mills smiled grimly. 


30 Entering Into His Own 

Then the undemonstrative man suddenly put his 
arm round Philip and drew the boy's head down on 
his own shoulder. 

“Lad, Pm only a degree better than the deacon; 
Fve neglected you. Somehow I see my present life 
better in this early morning light. Will you for- 
give my past neglect, Philip? And will you help 
me fight the black demon that so often has posses- 
sion of me? He often wins, my boy, but it may be 
with you to help me I could make a better fight." 

The child did not understand the words. How- 
ever, there was one thing he did understand — the 
pressure of Doctor Mills’ right arm. 

“You mustn’t talk about me forgiving you, sir,’’ 
and both Philip’s arms went round his guardian’s 
neck. “You’ve been the best person on earth to me. 
I don’t know how I can help you, but I’ll be glad to 
fight for you or do anything else.’’ 

The doctor smiled. For a few minutes he sat, 
musing, his arm still encircling Philip. At last he 
rose. 

“You are hungry, lad. I must go up to Connors. 
Wait for me here. When I come back we will go 
to breakfast.’’ 

An hour later Philip sat with Doctor Mills at the 
table of the house where the physician took his 
meals. As they rose a key was placed in the boy’s 
hands. 

“I know you will want to spend the day at home. 
Go to the kitchen on your way out; they will give 
you a basket of luncheon. Come back here to sup- 


Home Again 31 

per at six. And don’t forget to run in and see Mrs. 
Holmes.” 

That was a day of unalloyed happiness for Philip. 
He was too young to be saddened by the loneliness 
of the house. Setting the doors and the windows 
wide open, he let the breeze sweep through the 
rooms. Many things had been packed away by 
Doctor Mills, and a few of the most valuable articles 
had been carried to the village for safe keeping. 

The day was a busy one for Doctor Mills, for he 
drove out to Ashley Farm. He found the deacon a 
little uneasy concerning Philip’s prolonged ab- 
sence. 

There was a stormy interview between the two 
men. Doctor Mills once more “freed his mind,” as 
he expressed it, by telling the deacon just what he 
thought of his conduct. At first Ashley replied 
angrily, but the threat of the matter being reported 
to his pastor silenced him. 

“It must be that Mr. Lester knows that you are 
a dishonest wretch,” Doctor Mills cried, stepping 
a little nearer the other. “Doubtless it will be a 
relief to him to have a charge brought against you 
in such a way that he can throw you out of the 
church. It’s a mystery to me how you’ve managed 
to hold your place there, you old villain.” 

“You don’t understand the matter,” the deacon 
began, but Doctor Mills interrupted him. 

“I understand all I care to. You’ve ten minutes 
in which to pick up Phil’s clothes and hand me over 
the fifteen dollars difference between your bill and 


32 Entering Into His Own 

that note. If you fail to do either I’ll make you 
sorry for your refusal.” 

Philip came to supper at the appointed time. 
Then he went for a drive with the doctor. Soon 
after their return Doctor Mills made a bed on a 
couch in his sleeping-room for the child. In five 
minutes Philip was sleeping the restful sleep of 
healthy childhood. 

The doctor entered the room and stood looking 
down at the sleeping boy. A long-drawn sigh 
broke from the man’s lips. 

“It’s a losing battle you are waging, John 
Mills,” he said in his whimsical fashion of address- 
ing himself in the second person. “You have ex- 
cused yourself by saying you’ve nothing to fight for. 
Here is something. You care for the boy. If you 
cannot be a decent man for his sake it’s hardly prob- 
able you would have been for the sake of — well, per- 
haps it is as well as it is, but life is hard.” 

He stood lost in thought until the opening of the 
outside door warned him of the presence of some 
person in the office. He went forward at once. 

A woman of sixty stood just inside the door. 
Her shoulders were bowed as if with toil. Not- 
withstanding her faded, worn look there was a kind- 
ly light in her eyes. 

“Good evening, Mrs. King,” the doctor said po- 
litely. “You are not feeling worse, I hope.” 

“Oh, no. I am better, thanks to you,” she said, 
as she sat down. “You were very good to me. Doc- 
tor Mills, and I appreciate your kindness in wait- 


H ome Again 33 

ing for your bill until I can pay it by doing your 
washing.” 

“That's nothing. I am not sure that I ought to 
let you pay me at all. You have had a hard life, 
Mrs. King.” 

“Me? Oh, no, sir! Tve always been poor, but 
that don't matter. As long as I had my husband 
to care for, sick and crippled as he was, I was happy. 
Tm lonesome now, and my long sickness put me 
back. That brings me to what I came here for. 
I've got to move. Doctor Mills, for I'm a little be- 
hind with my rent. I can make it up in a few weeks, 
but Mr. Larr won't wait. I don't know what I am 
going to do, for I've nothing to pay in advance.” 

Doctor Mills' sympathy was roused. “Why, 
that is hard lines, Mrs. King. There must be some 
way out of your trouble. Let me think a moment.” 

“I've thought of something, sir, if you'll listen 
to it, and I hope you won't say no. There's the 
Graham house that's stood empty so long. Rent it 
to me. Doctor Mills, just the lower part. All the 
things there can be packed away upstairs, and you 
know I'll take good care of everything.” 

“Yes, I know that,” Doctor Mills said absent- 
ly. He rose and paced back and forth across the 
room, a plan slowly forming in his mind. 

“Would it not be too far out for you?” he asked. 
“Do you have to go for and return your washings ?” 

“Oh, no, sir! They are sent to me. Do you 
think you can let me have the place. Doctor Mills ?” 

“Fm not sure you will want it with its present 


34 Entering Into His Own 

encumbrance. You remember little Philip Gra- 
ham? He is here with me now, and I must find 
a new home for him. Philip is a peculiar child. 
He is not a bad boy but is totally unlike most other 
children. Mrs. King, why cannot you move into 
the house and board Philip?” 

‘‘O Doctor Mills ! It would be — ” and the good 
woman’s voice was choked with tears. 

‘‘There! Don’t cry. Of course, if you do not 
want to do it, I would not think of urging you to.” 

“You don’t understand,” Mrs. King cried. 
“Why, I’ll be delighted. Doctor Mills, I’m hungry 
for some one to love and take care of.” 

Doctor Mills winked. “It will be a fine thing for 
Philip. His heart clings to the little home, and he 
will be happy there. Now as to terms.” 

“If I boarded him for the use of — ” Mrs. King 
began timidly, but the doctor stopped her. 

“No, no. I am not going to let you work your- 
self to death for the boy. I’ll pay you. Philip will 
soon be big enough to help you, and I want you to 
teach him to work.” 

The bargain was soon completed. The doctor 
was to pay her a dollar and a half each week. He 
was to make any repairs needed on the house, and 
Mrs. King would begin cleaning it at her first lei- 
sure half day. 

When the situation was explained to Philip all 
color left the child’s face. For a moment his form 
quivered and trembled. Then tears came to his 
relief, and he sobbed convulsively. 


Home Again 35 

‘Why, Phil! Lad! What is it? I thought 
you would be glad/' 

“Glad ! Oh, I am so glad I can't talk. I can’t — ” 

The child was unable to go on. Doctor Mills 
saw his state of nervous excitement and drew Philip 
to him. 

“Don't try to talk about it, Phil. Nay, you are 
not to thank me. If you must thank some one, wait 
until you see Mrs. King. She is a good woman, 
lad, although she is not in the least like your mother. 
I shall expect you to do nothing to make her trouble 
and to help her with the work." 

“Oh, I’ll be as good as I can be, I really will!" 
the child cried, his face glowing with delight. “Just 
to think. Doctor Mills ! I am going to live at home 
again !" 


CHAPTER IV. 


FROM CHILDHOOD TO YOUTH. 

I N ten days Mrs. King and Philip were domi- 
ciled in the cottage. The house was fresh and 
clean. The widow had brought her little store 
of long-cherished furniture, and both the doctor and 
Philip wished her to use what was already there. 

On the ground floor of the cottage were a sitting- 
room, dining-room, kitchen and one chamber. Up- 
stairs there was a tiny hall from which two rooms 
opened. One of these had a door communicating 
with a quaint little upper balcony which jutted out 
over the front porch. From this balcony a fine 
view of the bay could be obtained. 

That was Philip’s room. He was a proud and 
happy boy the first night he slept there. The bed, 
the washstand, the dresser and the rocking chair — 
they had all been used by his mother. There was 
a sketch of her, made by his father, upon the wall, 
and her Bible lay upon a stand at the head of his 
bed. 

That was not all. It was a warm night, and the 
balcony door stood ajar. Outside there were many 
stars looking down upon the restless, softly-moving 
water of the bay. Up to the ears of the boy came 


From Childhood to Youth 37 

that wondrous melody, the song of the waves. As 
it had sympathized with him in his sorrow and en- 
tered into his spirit of longing, now it seemed to 
share his joy, for it sang of peace and good will. 

Life was soon moving on quietly. Philip not 
only aided Mrs. King about the house, but he ran 
errands for the doctor and helped supply the table 
by his fishing and berry-picking expeditions. Joe 
Holmes still fished, and in the long summer days 
before the beginning of school he often allowed 
Philip to go out in the boat with him. 

“Do ye mean to be a fisherman, like your pa 
was?” the old man asked one hot afternoon when 
Philip sat peering down into the cool, green depths 
of the water, unmindful of the fact that his float 
had twice disappeared beneath the surface. “If ye 
do ye’ll need to pay better ’tention to things.” 

Philip started. “I — why, Joe, I was wondering 
what the homes of the fish are like. It must be 
cool and beautiful down there, don’t you think?” 

“I never thought nothin’ ’bout it. I’m ’fraid, 
Phil, ye’re goin’ to be a poet, like your pa was. 
That may be all right, but it spoiled him fur bein’ 
a fisherman.” 

“Well, I’d rather be a man like him than any- 
thing I ever heard of,” Philip declared loyally. 
“But you see, Joe, he went to college.” 

“Don’t know as he was any better fur that,” Joe 
said with a shake of his grizzled head. “Look live- 
ly there, young man! Ye’ve a bite!” 

Doctor Mills was both surprised and disappointed 


38 Entering Into His Own 

to learn that Philip had made much less progress 
in school than might have been expected. He con- 
cluded that the former cramped home life of the boy 
had much to do with the matter. 

“Will I be doing him a real kindness to rouse 
his ambition ?” the doctor asked himself. “His 
mother expected him to become an educated man. 
I can do little to help him in that line, but I will do 
that little gladly.'' 

The Sunday night before the beginning of school 
Doctor Mills strolled down to the cottage. He 
found Philip stretched full length under the great 
pine, gazing off across the water. The sun was dis- 
appearing behind the growth of forest trees west 
of the village, and sky and water were flushed a soft 
crimson. 

“Do you never tire of watching the water, 
Phil?" the physician asked, sitting down on the 
sand. 

“Tire of it! Why, sir, I never see it enough. 
Did you ever notice how many different colors it 
is?" 

“Pve never studied it as you have, lad." 

“When Pm a man I mean to learn all about it. 
Perhaps Pll write a book about the bay," Philip 
said, a dreamy look in his eyes. 

“That would be fine; I would be very proud of 
you. But, Phil, before you can write a book you 
must learn a great deal. You learn easily, and it 
surprises me to know that you are not further ad- 
vanced in school. Why is it ?" 


From Childhood to Youth 39 

Philip hung his head. “Do you care, sir?” 

“Yes, lad, I care very much. I want you to have 
a good education. I know that was your mother’s 
wish.” 

Philip was already sitting up. He drew his little 
form proudly erect. 

“I’m ashamed, sir. You see, nobody cared, and 
I didn’t either. I liked to think about things and 
make believe they were true, so I did that instead of 
studying. But I’ll commence over again to-mor- 
row.” 

The next day marked an epoch in Philip Gra- 
ham’s life. It was the beginning of his conscious 
effort to become a scholar. 

He was most fortunate regarding a teacher. The 
sweet-faced girl was very kind to the little orphan 
and won his heart at once. 

After the first day of school Philip went fishing 
with Joe. So it was not until they sat down to sup- 
per that he had an opportunity to tell “Aunt Julia,” 
as he called Mrs. King, all about it. 

The dining-room had a side window that com- 
manded a view of the bay. Before this stood the 
little table spread with a snow-white cloth. There 
were the blue “willow pattern” dishes Mrs. King had 
used so many years. In the center of the table 
stood a quaint lavender and white china bowl that 
had belonged to Philip’s mother. It was crowded 
full of stalks of golden-rod. 

The meal was simple but abundant. There was 
good brown bread and butter, “warmed-over” po- 


40 Entering Into His Own 

tatoes, blackberries and milk, besides a cup of tea 
for the old lady. 

'‘How did school go to-day?’’ Mrs. King asked. 

"All right. Say, Aunt Julia, do you want me 
to get an education ?” 

"Why, of course I do, dear boy.” 

"I will do it. When nobody cared I didn’t think 
about it. Now I know you and Doctor Mills want 
me to have an education, and I’ve commenced to- 
day to get one.” 

He had dropped his fork and was gazing out of 
the window. Mrs. King’s eyes rested fondly on 
the little freckled face with its strange far-seeing 
eyes. Already the boy was very dear to her. 

"It’s just this way, my boy,” she said slowly. 
"It’s not so much what I want or even what your 
best friend. Doctor Mills, wants, but it’s what you 
ought to be. When I dust all them books in there — 
not all of ’em in English either — I feel as if your 
father’s son ought to be an educated man.” 

The childish face glowed as if with an inner light. 
"I will, I will ! Some day I will read them all, even 
the ones that are not English.” 

The years glided away. Doctor Mills often con- 
gratulated himself on the course he had taken. 
Both the boy and Mrs. King were well contented. 
As Philip grew older his proud spirit chafed because 
of his dependence upon his guardian. It was only 
when the doctor promised that some day the lad 
should pay back the money expended on him that 
the child was satisfied. 


From Childhood to Youth 41 

After his twelfth birthday Philip earned his own 
clothing. This was made easier by the change that 
was coming over that part of the country. Harbor 
Springs and the towns adjacent to it came to be the 
summer homes of many tourists who left the crowd- 
ed cities for the restful calm of lake and forest. 

Petoskey, at the entrance to the bay, was grow- 
ing rapidly. Near this city was Bay View, already 
becoming famous as a summer assembly ground. 
Cottages began to spring up at various points on 
the shore between Bay View and Harbor Springs. 
A few were also built out on Harbor Point, the 
nucleus of the beautiful and far-famed summer 
town that now occupies that charming spot. 

The fish that Philip caught, the berries he picked, 
even the wild flowers he gathered found ready sale 
to the tourists. Sometimes he was hired as a guide 
or to do errands. Mrs. King’s laundry work also 
came to be in great demand. 

Philip caught many glimpses of a life that was 
new to him. This widened the horizon of his 
dreamland, but was far less to him than were his 
beloved books. 

The lad had become a proficient scholar for his 
age. The village school was fairly good, and Phil- 
ip’s studious habits won for him the approbation of 
his teachers. 

He was no great favorite with the majority of 
his schoolmates. It was not that he was disagree- 
able, but he was indifferent to them, caring little 
for their games. Still he was no coward. He was 


42 Entering Into His Own 

strong although not large, and any attempt to tease 
him or treat him with injustice met with prompt re- 
sentment. 

Philip was fond of boating, swimming, skating, 
and of wandering in the woods. At times he was 
accompanied by some lad of his own age. He had 
friends among the Indian boys. There were many 
Indians in that locality, and the Catholic Holy 
Childhood Indian School brought to the village the 
children from the adjacent ‘country. 

When Philip was questioned by Doctor Mills as 
to his reason for liking the Indian boys his reply was 
characteristic. 

'‘They know enough to keep still,” he said, with 
a shrug of his shoulders. 'T cannot see why any one 
should care to talk when he can listen to the wind 
in the pines or to the murmur of the waves upon the 
beach.” 

Doctor Mills laughed. Then he looked sharply 
at the boy. 

“I’m not sure, lad, but it would be better for you 
to talk more and to read and dream less. Now, 
Phil, I am not finding fault with you, but I cannot 
help being uneasy about your future.” 

“Don’t think about that, sir. I read and dream, 
but I am not afraid to work. Some day I will take 
care of both you and Aunt Julia.” 

“That’s a pretty big responsibility for you to look 
forward to assuming. Once for all, Phil, don’t give 
what I have done for you a thought. It’s been — 
well, I can’t say it’s been my salvation, for I am far 


From Childhood to Youth 43 

from being saved, but you have held me back from 
utter destruction in a way you do not know.” 

Julian Graham’s books were a rare legacy to his 
son. The library had been chosen with care. Phil- 
ip read indiscriminately. At first he revelled in 
Longfellow, Tennyson, Scott, Dickens and Haw- 
thorne. These paved the way for Shakespeare, 
and, as to many another imaginative child, the bard 
of Avon opened a new world. 

As Philip grew older he read other things besides 
poetry and fiction. Burroughs, Thoreau and Em- 
erson led him to Gray’s botanical works. He read 
history, surprising Doctor Mills by the amount 
of knowledge he retained. 

But even books did not win Philip Graham from 
his love for nature. Emerson says, '‘The lover of 
nature is he whose inward and outward senses are 
still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained 
the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.” 
Philip passed from childhood to youth, but he still 
retained that wondrous adjustment between the in- 
ward and the outward senses that is one of God’s 
best gifts to his children. 

The bay was not only a source of rapturous de- 
light to him; it was his friend and confidant. Ly- 
ing on the pebbly beach he talked of the beauty of 
his visions, of his dreams of the future, and, to him, 
the waves sang of sympathy and encouragement. 

He loved the great forest that still, in many places, 
skirted the bay. Once within the shadow of the 
mighty trees the youth unconsciously came under 


44 Entering Into His Own 

the influence of the subtle and subduing charm of 
the woods. It was not only when the sun sought 
in vain to penetrate the depths of the forest that 
Philip felt this. Even when the snow lay deep upon 
the earth he floundered about in the woods, some- 
times on snowshoes, and still communed with the 
spirit of potent vitality that brooded over all. 

While association with books and the outdoor 
world was shaping Philip’s nature, religious teach- 
ing was not lacking. Mrs. King was a Christian 
woman. She attended church and Sabbath school, 
and Philip went with her. The widow saw that the 
boy allowed the injustice done him by Deacon Ash- 
ley to embitter his heart. Faithfully she tried to 
teach him of the forgiving and loving heavenly 
Father. 

Philip had a vague love and reverence for God 
as the Creator and the Holy One whom his mother 
worshipped. This belief was not a vital force in the 
youth’s life. Existence moved by uneventfully; no 
crushing sorrow roused in Philip the hunger for 
divine companionship that is as old as humanity. 

As Philip grew older he often found himself puz- 
zling over Doctor Mills. He loved the kindly phy- 
sician. Unfalteringly he gave loyalty and trust to 
the one who had done so much for him, yet he saw 
that the doctor’s life was a strange one. 

Doctor Mills had a large practice. He was con- 
sidered the most skilful physician of the town. Still 
many persons seemed to be losing confidence in him. 
His only home was the office and the shabby room 


From Childhood to Youth 45 

back of it. He was much of a recluse, never at- 
tended church and was growing careless about his 
dress. 

This was not all. Doctor Mills was aging fast. 
His florid face was wrinkled, and his red hair and 
beard were growing white. At times he was ner- 
vous and irritable. Often Philip heard some sneer- 
ing remark made about the doctor. At last he asked 
Mrs. King what it all meant. 

The old woman’s lips quivered. After a brief 
silence she said: 

“Don’t ask me, Philip. Doctor Mills is the best 
friend you and I have. Let us trust him in all 
things. Poor man! He needs friends.” 

The summer Philip was fourteen was a busy one 
for him. Many cottages were going up east of his 
home. Two resorts, Wequetonsing and Roaring 
Brook, had come into existence there, and at those 
places Philip sold his fish and berries. Sometimes 
he carried them across to Harbor Point in the row- 
boat he had worked hard to pay for. Many steam- 
ers touched at the dock of Harbor Springs. Once 
Philip went on one of the boats to Mackinac Island, 
and his glimpse of that historic spot made the great 
world more real to him. 

One hot evening Philip left the cottage to go to 
the village. He had spent the day picking huckle- 
berries. Early the next morning he would carry 
them to the hotel at Harbor Point. 

A book was in his hand as he made his way down 
the beach. It was Carlyle’s “Past and Present,” 


46 Entering Into His Own 

and he was on his way to ask Doctor Mills’ opinion 
on a puzzling passage. He often talked over the 
books he was reading with the doctor. 

Philip walked slowly, often glancing from the 
printed page to the sky or bay. 

“There’ll be a storm soon,” he thought. “I may 
have a rough pull in the morning.” 

He reached Doctor Mills’ office. The door stood 
open, and the boy walked in. 

The doctor sat before a small table. He looked 
up. 

“Eh! You, Phil? I — I don’t know as I want 
to see you just now. I — well, it’s nobody’s busi- 
'f^ess if I have spoiled my life.” 

Philip was conscious of a feeling strangely like 
fear. What ailed his old friend? The doctor’s 
face was flushed, his eyes were glassy, and he looked 
unlike himself. 

“What is the matter? Are you sick?” 

The voice rather than the words roused the man. 
He sat up, and the effort he made to cover with a 
newspaper the bottle and the glass on the table be- 
fore him first drew Philip’s attention to them. 

“Go away, Phil. This is no place for you. I’m 
drunk; that’s all.” 

Philip stood still a minute, his breath coming 
hard and fast. Theft, without a word, he left the 
office, closing the door behind him. 


/ 


CHAPTER V. 


ASSUMING RESPONSIBILITY. 

T he next morning was cool and stormy. There 
was little wind, but rain fell steadily, lashing 
the gray stretch of water to a mass of fleecy 

foam. 

Philip was astir at an early hour. He had built 
a rude shed to shelter his boat, so it was dry. Car- 
rying his berries, carefully covered, to the shore, he 
unlocked his boat and pushed off. 

After a few strokes of the oars Philip paused. 
He looked across to the Point, then turned his eyes 
to the village. 

“He is the best friend, the very best that I 
have.” In his abstraction he spoke aloud. “I am 
never going to turn my back upon him. Oh, if it 
had been anything but that!” 

Philip shivered. A horror of drunkenness, in- 
stilled into his mind by his mother’s teaching, had 
been augmented by seeing the Indians’ excessive use 
of liquor. It had never occurred to him that the 
doctor could be addicted to the use of strong 
drink. 

He caught up the oars. Instead of heading the 
boat for the Point he rowed along the shore to the 


48 Entering Into His Own 

village. Leaving his boat at a little dock he has- 
tened to Doctor Mills’ office. 

The door was unlocked. Philip entered. At the 
sight of the bottle, still a third full, he shrank back. 
The next moment he carried the bottle to the door 
and emptied the contents upon the grass. 

Philip tried the door into the back room. It 
yielded to his touch, and he stepped within. 

Doctor Mills was sitting up in bed, evidently hav- 
ing heard Philip moving about. The man was 
dressed as he had been the night before, his hair and 
beard were in disorder, and his eyes were bleared. 

''What’s wanted ?” he growled. 

"It is I — Philip. I left you suddenly last night, 
but I came in this morning to see what I could do 
for you.” 

"Eh!” The doctor seemed to be making an ef- 
fort to remember. "Did you see me last night, lad? 
If so you’ve learned the secret I have tried to hide 
from you.” 

He dropped his head in his hands. Philip threw 
up the window, letting in the fresh, damp air. Then 
the boy pushed forward a chair. 

"Sit down here, sir. Never mind the damp air; 
it will make you feel better.” 

Philip threw the tumbled clothing from the bed. 
Mrs. King had trained him to habits of dainty clean- 
liness, and the fetid air of the room, as well as its 
disorder, annoyed him. Next he brought a basin 
of cool water and began to bathe the doctor’s face. 

Doctor Mills petulantly bade him desist. "I’m 


Assuming Responsibility 49 

not worth it, lad. It’s been years and years since 
there was any one to care.” 

“I care, sir. You are about all I have in the 
world, and I’m going to stand by you.” 

Doctor Mills did not speak for some time. At 
last he said : 

“Phil, it’s strange you never learned my shame- 
ful secret before. I tried to keep it from you, be- 
cause, brute that I am, I prize your regard. Nearly 
every one has lost confidence in me, for my failing 
is becoming well known. I never go to the saloons, 
but I shut myself up here and drink and drink until 
I cease to be a man, until I forget. It was to win 
forgetfulness that I first began it. In those days, 
Phil, bruised and broken as I was, I was sure of my 
own strength, and I never dreamed I would come 
to this.” 

He threw out his hands with a despairing ges- 
ture. Philip made no response. Seeing the doctor 
shiver, he wrapped a blanket about him and dried 
his head and face with a towel. 

“Now you understand why it has been a blessing 
for me to spend my money on you.” The doctor 
spoke in a more natural tone. “You’ll soon be a 
man, Phil. It’s only a little I’ve done for you, but 
it is the only good thing I ever did. Make of your 
future what you can and never mind me. The end 
will come soon.” 

Philip straightened his boyish figure. It was as 
if he was assuming his share of the world’s care. 

“I’ve listened to you, and now you must let me 


50 Entering Into His Own 

speak. I can never repay you for all you have done 
for me, but it’s nonsense to talk about it’s being all 
the good you ever did. You have given your ser- 
vices wherever they were needed, regardless of the 
question of payment. You have been a true friend 
to every person in need.” 

“But I am my own worst enemy, lad.” 

“Indeed I believe you are. I wish you would 
never touch another drop of the stuff, but no matter 
what you do, sir, I am going to stand by you. I 
could not sleep last night, and I thought it all out. 
I am going to stand by you.” 

Just then a tear from the doctor’s eye fell upon 
Philip’s hand. There was a brief silence. Then the 
boy said : 

“Doctor Mills, lie down here and let me cover 
you up. We will leave the window open. I must 
carry my berries to the hotel at Harbor Point. 
When I come back I will stop. You shall go home 
with me to breakfast. I will not take no for an an- 
swer.” 

He had his way. Entering the boat he hastily 
rowed back home. Mrs. King had just risen, and 
Philip told her all. She had long known of the doc- 
tor’s weakness and heartily approved of the plan to 
help him. 

“I’ll have breakfast ready and a cup of coffee 
what will be coffee,” she said. “Now run along, 
honey. You’ll be tired and hungry when you get 
back.” 

Philip was tired and hungry, but he was triumph- 


Assuming Responsibility 51 

ant. He brought Doctor Mills with him. The 
young host seated his guest before the wood fire 
Mrs. King had kindled in the fireplace and handed 
him a book. 

“Glance over those two pages of Carlyle while 
I am changing my clothes. Somehow I don't un- 
derstand them,” and he ran off. 

He was back in a few minutes arrayed in clean 
but patched garments. A little later they sat at the 
table with Mrs. King. 

The coffee was all the good woman had promised 
it should be. Its fragrance revived Doctor Mills, 
and, after a few swallows of it, he was able to eat 
heartily of the baked potatoes, hot corn bread, fish, 
and berries. 

The meal over Mrs. King stole away to her iron- 
ing, while the man and boy sat talking. The rain 
tapped gently against the windows, and the fire 
crackled on the stone hearth. A serene, kindly look 
had come to Doctor Mills' face. At last he rose. 

“You have made me forget that I have a round 
of visits before me. Thanks to you, Phil, I can set 
about them clear-headed. The demon is exorcised 
for this time. It may be weeks before he returns. 
When he does, Phil, for your sake I’ll give him bat- 
tle. He will win, though.'' 

“Let me help you fight him. When he comes go 
with me out on the bay or in the woods. Those 
places are better fighting ground.'' 

A faint smile flitted over the physician's worn 
face. “There spoke the true nature lover. God 


52 Entering Into His Own 

grant you may never lose your delight in her ! One 
of the favorite authors of my school days says : ‘The 
power to produce this delight does not lie in nature 
but in man, or in a harmony of both/ I cannot 
carry to the woods what you do, but I will try, for 
your sake I will try.” 

From that time it seemed as if the positions of 
Doctor Mills and Philip were reversed. It was not 
only that the boy refused to allow his guardian to 
pay his board. Philip watched over the doctor, 
never allowing a day to go by without seeing him. 

The boy learned to know when those fits of fear- 
ful thirst were threatening his friend. Then he 
coaxed the doctor off for long tramps or rows, 
thoroughly tiring him out. Instead of letting the 
solitary man go back to the office, Philip always 
took him to the cottage, where Mrs. King gave him 
nourishing food and hot drink and persuaded him 
to lie down and sleep. 

“Richard is himself again,” Doctor Mills an- 
nounced one autumnal afternoon, as he met Philip 
a few steps from the door of the cottage. “I slept 
until a quarter of an hour ago. Mrs. King told me 
you did not go to school until I was asleep, and you 
missed the morning session for the pleasure of hav- 
ing me row you over the bay.” 

“I had my lessons, though. Now you are not 
going back to the office without your supper.” 

“Not if you do not mind having it early. Indeed 
Mrs. King is preparing it now. The fact that I sent 
a ham and a couple of pounds of number one coffee 


Assuming Responsibility 53 

up here last week gives the dear old soul an excuse 
for making a spread.” 

The two were walking slowly toward the house. 
Suddenly Doctor Mills paused, laying one hand 
upon the other’s arm. 

‘'Why is it, Phil? You never lecture me. It 
almost seems as if you knew.” 

‘T know you are my best friend. Sorry as I am, 
I shall always stand by you.” 

A tender light transformed the man’s rugged 
face. He laid one arm caressingly over Philip’s 
shoulders. 

“ ‘The king can do no wrong.’ Ah, loyal heart, 
if I was only worthy of your love ! Philip, only God 
knows how I have struggled against and fought this 
foe. May you never know what it is to want some- 
thing, just some bodily gratification, so intensely 
that you would barter your soul for it !” 

“I don’t know about that,” Philip admitted. “I 
wish I could bear it for you.” 

“You ! O my lad, I would bear this awful thing 
all through eternity rather than it should be your 
portion! There! Let us forget it. How beautiful 
the autumnal coloring of yonder hills is !” 

Mrs. King and Philip had set out fruit trees and 
berry bushes on the little farm. There was a field 
to rent for pasture, they had an excellent garden and 
kept chickens. These things, added to their earn- 
ings, supplied their wants. Mrs. King had all the 
washing and ironing she could do, and Philip found 
employment for all his leisure hours. 


54 Entering Into His Own 

Indeed they prospered so well that Mrs. King 
had a small bank account. Philip was able often to 
buy himself a new book. 

Late in the spring the widow fell ill. She had 
a severe cold but at first refused to have a physician 
called, preparing some simple remedies for herself. 
However, one morning she was unable to rise. 
Philip made her as comfortable as possible and hur- 
ried off after Doctor Mills. 

The physician said little but insisted that his pa- 
tient should remain in bed. 

‘T am going to send Mrs. Carpenter up here for 
a few days,’’ he announced as he rose to take his 
departure. ‘‘What’s that? Can’t afford it? Well, 
who said you could? The old lady owes me two 
hundred dollars, and she’s always teasing me to take 
it in work.” 

Three days went by. One afternoon Philip, 
when on his way back to school, called at the office. 

“No, she isn’t any better. Doctor Mills — ” and 
he stopped as if he could say no more. 

The doctor held out one hand. “It’s pneumonia, 
lad, and that is hard for a woman of Mrs. King’s 
age. I’ve been afraid from the first, but this morn- 
ing I saw that what I feared was surely coming.” 

“And that is?” 

It was a moment before the doctor spoke. His 
hand closed over that of Philip. 

“I cannot bear to think what it will be for you, 
lad. For her it will be reunion with the husband 
to whom she was so leal many years.” 


Assuming Responsibility 55 

Philip turned away his head. Out in the bay the 
ice was gone, and a strong wind was driving high, 
white-capped waves shoreward. In that moment 
the youth’s love for the bay was forgotten; he 
looked at it with unseeing eyes. 

“I — I think I’ll go back home,” he said in a 
voice that sounded as if it came from a great 
distance. 

All that afternoon Philip sat in the sitting-room, 
staring out over the bay. He was too dazed to think 
clearly. Mrs. King had come to be much to him. 
While she was illiterate and unable to enter into 
many of his thoughts, they had been a great deal to 
each other. Together they had made a home. 

Philip attended mechanically to the wants of the 
household, received the kind neighbors who called, 
went to the village on an errand — all with outward 
composure. Late in the afternoon he sat in the sick 
room while Mrs. Carpenter was busy in the kitchen. 

As he held a spoonful of medicine to the sick 
woman’s lips she put up one hand to touch his arm. 

“Sit down close to me, Philip. There is some- 
thing I want to say to you.” 

As Philip sat down he bent his head and kissed 
the toil-worn hand that lay outside the blanket. 
Mrs. King lifted her other hand and laid it upon his 
bowed head. 

“God bless my boy! Make of him such a man 
that his father and mother will be glad I” 

After a little she went on. “Philip, I am going. 
I would be glad, honey, only I know you will be 


56 Entering Into His Own 

lonesome. It is beautiful to think of going home, 
going to my Savior and to my loved ones. You’ll 
soon be a man, Philip, for you are fifteen. Left 
alone. I’m afraid you’ll get hard and cold.” 

Philip started. Already he was conscious of a 
feeling of resentment because of the change that was 
coming into his life. 

“Doctor Mills will be a care to you, but I know 
my boy too well to think that he will ever neglect 
his old friend. I don’t need to urge you to study, 
for you will do that, and you’ll be truthful and up- 
right. You will win love, honey, when folks know 
you as you really are. Don’t shut yourself away 
from every one as you do. I can say but one word 
more — my boy, give yourself to Christ now in the 
morning of your life.” 

Her strength was exhausted. Philip gave her a 
drink. After sleeping a few minutes she roused 
and spoke of her earthly affairs. 

Her little savings amounted to enough to defray 
her funeral expenses. She had no near relatives, 
and what there was left, as well as her furniture 
and poor treasures, were to go to Philip. 

Two days later the end came. Mrs. King had 
lain unconscious all day, and just as twilight fell she 
passed to the great beyond. 

When all was over Philip left the death chamber. 
It was raining, and, contrary to his usual custom, 
he did not seek solace under the open sky. Instead 
he shut himself up in his own room. 

“Yes, I will be a man,” he said when Doctor Mills 


Assuming Responsibility 57 

came up to him. ''Don’t think about me; I’ll worry 
along some way.” 

On the third day after her death Mrs. King’s 
body was carried up the bluff and laid at rest in the 
village cemetery. After her life of toil and self- 
sacrifice she slept beside the husband of her youth. 

"Come to the office with me, Phil,” Doctor Mills 
urged as the little funeral train wound its way back 
to the village. 

Philip shook his head. "I would rather be at 
home, sir. Can’t you come out? I will get you 
some supper.” 

"Yes, I’ll come after an hour or two. There are 
a couple of patients I must see first. I must have a 
talk with you, Phil. Poor stick as I am I’m your 
guardian, and there must be some plan made for 
your future.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


A SOLITARY LIFE. 

P hilip found the little house in perfect order. 
Mrs. Carpenter was there but was obliged to 
go at once. Mrs. Perrine, a kind neighbor 
living next door, called and invited Philip to spend 
the night at her home. 

'T cannot think of your staying here alone,” she 
said, and her motherly tone quickened the beating 
of Philip’s heart. 

He thanked her but said, ‘T expect Doctor Mills 
soon and am sure I can persuade him to stay all 
night with me.” 

Mrs. Perrine sighed. “Philip, excuse me if I 
speak plainly. I know the doctor has been kind to 
you, but it would be better for you to have less of 
his companionship.” 

Philip looked at her questioningly. “It must be 
that you do not understand, Mrs. Perrine. Doctor 
Mills has cared for me as a father. If he was my 
father you would not think I should cast him off. 
He needs me sorely, and I must stand by him.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” she replied, tears stand- 
ing in her eyes, “but you must let the rest of us 
help you.” 


A Solitary Life 59 

Again he thanked her with the old-time courtesy 
which he had learned from Doctor Mills. When he 
was alone Philip sat about preparing supper for his 
expected guest. 

It was hard for him to keep back the tears as he 
performed the duties so long shared with kind Aunt 
Julia. Then there was a feeling of uneasiness at 
his heart regarding Doctor Mills. Notwithstanding 
the grief of Philip he had noticed the nervous con- 
dition of his old friend. 

'T am afraid that awful thirst is upon him/’ he 
thought, going to the front door and peering 
through the gloom along the beach. “If he should 
fail me!” 

“Here I am,” called the doctor’s voice. “It was a 
hard struggle, Phil; nothing but your need could 
have brought me.” 

Unselfishly Philip put aside his own sorrow and 
set about helping the doctor to be at ease. 

“I am not sure the coffee is just as you like it,” he 
said as they sat down to the table, “but I will soon 
learn to get it right.” 

“You haven’t much to learn, about coffee making 
I mean,” was the doctor’s cheery reply. 

Supper over and the table cleared, the two sat 
before the glowing wood fire. Doctor Mills lighted 
his pipe. Philip sat, leaning slightly forward, gaz- 
ing into the fire. Ten minutes went by before Doc- 
tor Mills said: 

“Phil, you can’t stay here alone; that’s out of the 
question. Will you come with me? You are more 


6o Entering Into His Own 

than welcome, lad, but you deserve something bet- 
ter.” 

shall stay here.” There was all of a man’s 
decision on the boyish face. 'Tlease, Doctor Mills, 
do not try to make me change my mind. Cannot 
you come out here and live?” 

“It’s too far out. Besides I will not saddle myself 
and my faults upon you. But, Phil, you ought not 
to stay here alone. It’s barbarous for a boy like 
you.” 

“This is my home. I can earn my living and 
finish my course in school. As I must work part of 
the time, I’ll take three years for that last. I shall 
be lonely, but that is my lot in life.” 

“That’s nonsense, Phil.” 

“It’s the truth. You are the only person in the 
world who loves me. Somehow I don’t know how 
to get near people. I am akin to all nature but an 
alien from all human kind.” 

Again the doctor scowled. “I say that is non- 
sense, lad. Some day you will find your rightful 
place in the world. You live too much in books and 
in dreams. What will you be after three years 
here alone?” 

“What will I be?” Philip asked musingly. “Well, 
I will be nearer my goal for one thing.” 

Doctor Mills peered sharply into the boy’s face. 
“What is that goal, Phil? I have often wondered 
what you are looking forward to. Your life cannot 
be all berry-picking and fishing. Neither shall I 
be content to have it all lumbering or farming, and 
there is little else here.” 


A Solitary Life 6i 

‘‘None of those things are my work. I want to 
be a student and a scholar as my father was. I want 
to make my life a successful one; to do so will in a 
measure recompense for what was denied him. Yet 
I cannot decide just what I want to do.” 

“That will come in time. It’s in you, Phil, to 
win. A strong purpose creates its own means of 
accomplishment. If I could only help you!” 

“You have helped me, never forget that. You 
must come out here often, and we will help each 
other.” 

All of Philip’s acquaintances looked with disfavor 
upon his project of remaining at the cottage. How- 
ever, no one did more than express disapproval, and 
the boy was left undisturbed. 

It was not a wise thing for him to do. Always 
reserved and inclined to lose himself in visionary 
musings, Philip grew more silent and less like other 
boys of his own age. He sought solace for his lone- 
liness in books and in nature, forgetting that one 
need of man is social intercourse. 

Silence was not the only thing that time of loneli- 
ness brought Philip Graham. He resented the atti- 
tude of the villagers toward Doctor Mills more 
than did the physician himself. Doubt and a cer- 
tain sort of cynicism took possession of him. It was 
again the feeling of his childhood — “folks are not 
as good as things.” 

It was not surprising that the people of Harbor 
Springs began to lose faith in Doctor Mills. In the 
year following Mrs. King’s death he drank more 
deeply than ever before, often being unfit to respond 


62 Entering Into His Own 

to the professional calls made upon him. Philip’s 
vigilance was unavailing. The doctor learned to 
avoid his young friend when the paroxysms of thirst 
were coming on. 

“It’s no use, lad,” he would cry in despair. “Fve 
tried, and it’s no use. The sooner I drink myself 
to death the better.” 

Philip would not give up his self-imposed task, 
hopeless as it seemed. He kept the little cottage neat 
and homelike, and the doctor was always welcome 
there. 

The number of summer tourists who came to that 
vicinity increased with each year. Philip carried on 
his fishing and berrying. He added a few beds of 
flowers to his vegetable garden, and the sweet peas, 
nasturtiums, phlox, and verbenas sold readily at the 
Point or at Wequetonsing. 

In the summer Philip went several times to Bay 
View to hear some speaker whose reputation had be- 
come known to him. Listening to a first-class lec- 
turer wakened in the youth’s mind a longing for con- 
tact with the outside world. 

“I must earn money enough to go away to 
school,” he concluded. “There are so many things 
I cannot learn by myself.” 

The second summer Philip was alone he secured 
steady employment at Harbor Point. A wealthy 
family who had the year before erected a spacious 
cottage, which they called Idlewild, hired him to aid 
Bruce, their sturdy Scotch coachman and gardener. 

“There’s plenty of work,” the Scotchman said. 


A Solitary Life 63 

‘‘We have to keep the horses over at the village, and 
that’s a bother. Then I don’t know a thing about a 
boat. I’m of the opinion that the good Lord never 
meant for man to paddle round on the treacherous 
water. If so he would have had fins like fish. I 
like your face, laddie, and you are mannerly. Are 
you sure you can be trusted on the water with the 
young misses?” 

Philip hesitated. “I do not think there is a man 
on the bay who can handle a rowboat or a sailboat 
better than I can, but I don’t know much about 
children.” 

“These are half-grown girls. If you don’t let 
them get drowned they can take care of them- 
selves.” 

The girls were merry and fun-loving. They 
looked upon Philip as a servant and ordered him 
about in a way that irritated the proud boy. Never 
before had he realized that his poverty and work 
would cause some people to look down upon him. 

“They think I am beneath them, just because I 
have to work,” he said to himself. “As if my mind 
was not as active and my aim in life as high as 
theirs ! Well, I will show these girls and the world 
that I am not always to be a servant.” 

When autumn came Philip took up his books with 
renewed zest. Had he confined himself to the sub- 
jects required of him at school, he might have com- 
pleted his course earlier. But Philip read and 
studied whatever interested him. Even his teachers 
were not aware of the scope of his reading, although 


64 Entering Into His Own 

each instructor to whom the boy recited understood 
that he possessed a remarkable mind. 

That winter Philip became very anxious to study 
Latin. Languages were not taught in the village 
school. The superintendent, Mr. Baxter, was an 
old man, kind and helpful but very conservative in 
his modes of thought. 

Philip overtook him on the street one evening, 
and, as they walked along, told of his desire. 

‘‘Latin! Why, my boy, that would do you no 
good. I never studied it. It’s all very well for one 
who has money to waste on a college course, but for 
practical men like you and me, Philip, English and 
the sciences are enough.” 

Philip compressed his lips. Mr. Baxter did not 
understand him; no one understood him. The old 
gentleman continued speaking. 

“I said practical men. Now, Philip, you are not 
practical, but you ought to be. You are too imagi- 
native. Yet your mind is naturally of a scientific 
bent. You must overcome your imaginative habits 
of thought. I know Goethe says, ‘Without imagina- 
tion no man can be a naturalist,’ but you are too poor 
to dream of being that, besides it is not practical. 
You might better plan to be a carpenter. You need 
mathematics, the basis of science, for that, and the 
building and remodeling of cottages here makes 
work plentiful.” 

“I would not like that,” Philip said a little testily. 
“It is not that I am afraid of the hard work, but I 
care for the woods, the water, and books. It was 


A Solitary Life 65 

the Latin I wanted to ask you about, and I'll not 
trouble you further,” and he stopped at a corner 
where their ways parted. ^‘Good night, Mr. Bax- 
ter.” 

‘‘Good night, my boy. It's no trouble. I'm al- 
ways glad to advise you. You better give up the 
thought of Latin. Indeed you'll have to give it up, 
for there is no one in the place who can teach it un- 
less it is one of the Catholic priests over at the school, 
and of course they are out of the question. Good 
night, Philip.” 

He walked on. Philip stood still, lost in thought. 
As they so often did when he was perplexed, his eyes 
sought the bay. It was a wide expanse of gleaming 
whiteness, the snow laying deep on the ice. 

“Why should the priests be out of the question? 
They are human beings, and I suppose are finely 
educated. Why should not they feel a sympathy 
with my longing for an education ? I am sure I 
would prove a more satisfying pupil than those dull 
Indian boys.” 

The Indian school was under the control of the 
School Sisters of Notre Dame and the Franciscan 
Brothers. Not only were the Indian children gath- 
ered into the school, but it was open to the children 
of all Catholic families. Orphan children were re- 
ceived there and cared for by the church. 

At that time there were four monks at the school. 
One of them. Father Lester, was the village priest. 
Philip knew him by sight. He was only barely past 
middle life with a proud, intellectual face. 


66 Entering Into His Own 

Philip pondered the daring thought that had come 
to him for twenty-four hours. Then, with his 
usual simple directness, he set out for the Indian 
school. 

The school buildings and the homes of the priests 
and nuns were grouped round the church in the west- 
ern part of the town. Back of the church was a 
small cemetery, and all was enclosed by a high picket 
fence. 

Philip rang the bell at the door of the building 
where he knew the priests ate and slept. An Indian 
boy answered the ring. To Philip’s request to see 
Father Lester he returned only a stolid stare and 
vanished, leaving the half-frightened caller to wait 
his return. 

The waiting was so long that Philip was about to 
ring the bell the second time when the boy returned. 
He motioned Philip to follow him down the corri- 
dor. At the extreme end he halted and threw open 
a door. 

Philip stepped across the threshold. The room 
was small and unfurnished save for a table and two 
high-backed chairs. A bright fire blazed in the 
brick fireplace. On the table in the midst of a litter 
of papers and books stood a shaded lamp. Before 
the fire sat Father Lester arrayed in the coarse 
brown robe and rope girdle of the Franciscan 
Brothers. 

The youth advanced and bowed his head in greet- 
ing. 

“You wished to see me, my son?” The voice. 


A Solitary Life 67 

like the face, was impassive. ‘‘Who are you, and 
what is your errand?’' 

He motioned toward the unoccupied chair. Philip 
sat down and told his story. All he wanted was 
teaching, and he was willing to pay for that. 

Father Lester asked many questions. His dark 
eyes never left the other’s face. Philip felt that at 
last he was understood, that the man opposite read 
his innermost thoughts as a printed page. At last 
the priest asked: 

“Why do you want an education?” 

Philip started. “Why?” he repeated vaguely. 
“Why do we want food, warmth, and light? I can 
explain one as well as the other.” 

For an instant a curious gleam shone in the som- 
ber eyes of Father Lester, but his voice kept the 
same full, rich monotone as he asked : 

“What will you do with it?” 

Again the boy hesitated. “I do not know just 
what I will do, but I will make my future a success. 
When my mother was dying she told me that there 
was a place for me in the world, and that some day 
I should enter into it.” 

“She was right. You did well to come to me. 
The Catholic Church stands ready to help her sons. 
I will not only teach you, but I will see that you 
have an opportunity to carry on your studies as far 
as you wish.” 

Philip rose. What was this that was offered him ? 

“But I am not a Catholic,” he faltered. 

“Why are you not?” The priest, too, had risen 


68 Entering Into His Own 

and stepped forward to lay one hand on the youth’s 
arm. “It is because you know nothing of the wise 
and beneficent mother church. You shall learn.” 

The fire on the hearth leaped higher, then fell to 
a mass of glowing embers. Philip Graham looked 
straight into the eyes of the priest. Some occult 
power seemed given the lad. The eyes long accus- 
tomed to the unfaltering truth of nature read the 
hope of the designing man before him. 

Father Lester saw that he was understood. He 
did not despair. There was much he had to offer 
this hungry intellect. 

“A thorough education.” That time there was a 
sympathetic note in the man’s voice. “One that will 
set you high among your fellow men. Study abroad 
if you please.” 

Philip stood speechless. “All these things will I 
give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.” 
All these things. Ah, they meant much ! 

“We understand each other,” Father Lester con- 
tinued. “Come to-morrow evening, and we will 
commence the lessons. I have an engagement now, 
and you can find your way out.” 

Philip obeyed the gesture which dismissed him. 
As in a dream he passed down the corridor. Just 
outside the door he halted and stood looking across 
the bay. 

What had he done? Up before him rose a face — 
that of his sainted mother. What was the noise in 
his ears? Again he heard the words, “Into thy 
hands, O God, do I commit my son and his future !” 


A Solitary Life 69 

A moment later Father Lester was roused from 
the revery into which he had fallen by the opening 
of the door. He looked up, expecting to see a 
brother priest. It was Philip. 

“I came back to tell you I will not do it. Much 
as I want an education I will not sell myself to the 
Catholic Church for it. My mother put my future 
in God’s care, and I dare not do this thing.” 

“Dare not! After all you are a coward. You do 
not realize what we have for you.” 

“I realize too well,” was Philip’s reply as he again 
left the room and hurried out into the night. 


CHAPTER VIL 


NEW WORK. 

P hilip plodded slowly through the snow home- 
ward. He was cast down and rebellious. 
'Tt was not an education I asked him for, 
but just a helping hand. Why could he not give it 
to me as one man to another and leave his priest- 
hood out of the question? Shall I give it up?'' 

Again he recalled his dying mother's words. 
Child as he had been when they were spoken they 
had never been forgotten. 

“She said God would lead me into my rightful 
place in the world," he mused. “It must be the 
craving for knowledge is to fit me for that place. I 
will not give up. My father's school books are at 
the house, and I will commence the study of Latin 
to-night." 

That was not the last of Father Lester’s attempts 
to gain an influence over Philip. The priest saw 
him again. Upon the boy's cold rejection of the 
proffered aid no impression could be made. Doctor 
Mills, as the youth's guardian, was next visited. 

“I don't doubt but you'd educate him, father," 
the physician said, “but he's not your kind. There 
is not much I am afraid of in this world or the next, 


New Work 


71 

but I should be afraid of that boy’s dead mother if I 
handed him over to you.” 

Philip’s life drifted on until he was eighteen and 
had finished the course of study at the Harbor 
Springs school. That summer he continued his fish- 
ing, flower-raising and berry-picking. He occa- 
sionally helped the Scotch coachman at Idlewild but 
refused to hire out there for the season. 

Philip suddenly became aware that the tiny farm 
left him by his parents might prove of some value. 
He was offered a fair price for a building site for 
a summer cottage. Doctor Mills advised him to ac- 
cept it, but Philip refused. 

'T’ll wait another year,” he said. “When I have 
decided what to do it will be time enough to think 
about needing money. I have plenty for the present, 
even after the extravagance of buying a second- 
hand sailboat.” 

Philip took pride in keeping his home in excellent 
condition. The cottage with its broad veranda, 
flower beds, and sheltering grove attracted the eyes 
of tourists. The owner was often asked to rent 
rooms but refused. That year he was approached 
by two young men, students from an Eastern col- 
lege, and he found it hard to say no to their solicita- 
tions. 

“No one to take care of the room,” one of them 
cried. “Zounds, man! We are not infants. I came 
here to get rid of the coddling of a maiden aunt, 
ril take care of the room myself. All we ask of you 
is your view, your hammock, and enough of your 


72 Entering Into His Own 

company to bring us such luck as that/’ pointing to 
a string of fish Philip was lifting from the boat. 

Philip yielded. The young men had the down- 
stairs sleeping-room for two dollars a week. They 
took their meals at the village. 

Their presence in the house proved pleasant. 
They would not be ignored, and their treatment of 
their young host was so cordial that he found him- 
self trying to entertain them. His knowledge of 
the woods and the water met with their praises, and 
they encouraged him to plan for a college education. 

“Don’t know what you’ll be,” one of them cried 
in response to Philip’s halting confession. “That’s 
not strange. Here am I — the only son of a family 
too old to be of any earthly good. My father ex- 
pects me to be a lawyer, while my mother wants me 
to be an Episcopal clergyman — High Church, you 
know. I’ve a sister who would like me to be a 
soldier, and there’s — well, another girl who thinks 
I should be an artist. Honestly I would rather be 
a circus performer than anything I know of — do the 
high-trapeze act, you know.” 

Philip could not refrain from laughing. 

“Now that’s all the sympathy I get,” George Vil- 
liers went on. “I’ve two years more at Bowdoin, 
and then I’m to have a year abroad. If the matter 
doesn’t settle itself by that time, I’ll draw lots, and 
here’s hoping the circus may win!” 

One afternoon while the students were still at the 
cottage Philip made his way to the office of Doctor 
Mills. 


New Work 


73 

There was little change there save that the room 
was shabbier than of yore. The doctor’s years of 
dissipation had told upon him ; he looked like a man 
of sixty. 

The best of his practice had gone from him. Peo- 
ple did not doubt his skill, but they knew they could 
not trust him. He never appeared upon the streets 
when drunk but locked himself in his office until 
sober. 

He greeted Philip warmly. The friendship be- 
tween the two had never waned. Philip still 
watched over the broken-down man, still tried to 
save him from himself. 

They chatted of various matters a few minutes be- 
fore Philip said : 

‘‘You know I’ve been all at sea about what I am 
to do next year. Villiers, one of the fellows up at 
the cottage, advises me to take a position as teacher 
in a country school.” 

“The very thing, lad! I wonder none of us 
thought of it before.” 

Philip made a grimace. “More wonder that any 
one thought of it in connection with me. I’m not 
sure I will like it, but the wages paid are good, and 
I would have the long evenings for my own 
studies.” 

“Oh, it will be easy enough,” the doctor ex- 
claimed reassuringly, but Philip shook his head. 

“I’m not so sure of that. However, if I undertake 
it I’ll try hard to do good work. It may be a step 
forward.” 


74 Entering Into His Own 

He sat looking away into the distance, thus giv- 
ing Doctor Mills a chance to study his face unob- 
served. Philip was a trifle below medium height, 
heavily built, broad-shouldered and erect. The 
freckles had not all faded from his finely-featured 
face. As of old his long-lashed blue eyes were 
dreamy, while his closely-cut chestnut hair curled 
round his brow. 

^Tt is a face that would make a mother’s heart 
glad,” the doctor said to himself, “yet is the face 
of one who sees visions rather than realities.” 

Aloud he said briskly, “It’s a good thing for you, 
Phil, having those young men at the cottage. You 
need to come into contact with young life. Have 
you any idea where to apply for a school ?” 

“I saw Henry Carter over at the Point yesterday. 
He told me of a school up near Ayr. You know the 
little town, ten miles up in the woods. Henry said 
they had no teacher. If you think well of the plan 
I’ll go up there in the morning.” 

“If I think well of it ! You will insist upon play- 
ing the role of a dutiful ward. I do think well of it, 
my boy, and may success be yours.” 

Philip made the trip into the country the next day. 
He found the schoolhouse for which he was seeking, 
a low log structure looking out over a stump-strewn 
waste. Back of the building stretched an unbroken 
forest. Down the road a little way stood a tiny 
church, and beyond were several farmhouses. 

It was not a promising outlook, but Philip was 
not easily discouraged. There had been no applica- 


New Work 


75 

tion for the position. The president of the school 
board, a man named Riley, demurred a few mo- 
ments over Philip’s youth but finally hired him for 
four months, commencing the middle of November. 
He was to receive twenty-eight dollars a month. 

‘‘You better board with us,” Mr. Riley said 
patronizingly. “We are a little crowded, but I guess 
we can make room for you.” 

Philip agreed to that proposition with some re- 
luctance. He dreaded leaving his own home, lonely 
as it was. Besides, Mr. Riley was not very clean and 
had all through the interview continued to eject to- 
bacco juice from his mouth. 

The next thing to be thought of was the teacher’s 
certificate Philip must have. Upon making inqui- 
ries he learned that an examination for persons de- 
siring to teach would be held at Harbor Springs the 
second week in September. 

Before that time arrived Philip’s lodgers had re- 
turned to their eastern homes. The young men bade 
their youthful host good-by with real regret. 

“I don’t know as Pll ever get as far away from 
the maternal leading strings as this again,” Villiers 
said dolefully. “I shall expect to hear from you, 
though. Nonsense, Ralph! Congress indeed! 
Graham knows too much to get into politics. When 
I read a charming tale or a clever bit of verse in one 
of the leading magazines — something that has the 
essence of the dancing waves and the murmuring 
pines in it — Pll say, ‘My friend Graham wrote that. 
Remarkable chap that Graham.’ ” 


76 Entering Into His Own 

''You are laughing at me,” Philip cried. 

"No. IPs in you, my boy. I don't know just 
what's needed to bring it out, but I have a satisfying 
belief that life brings us the things we need. Your 
honored Emerson says, ‘The things that are really 
for thee gravitate to thee,' so keep up good heart. 
Good-by.'' 

The school commissioner who conducted the ex- 
amination was an old acquaintance of Philip's. 
John Montgomery had several years before gradu- 
ated from the Harbor Springs school. He was 
young, upright, and aspiring. His greeting en- 
couraged Philip. 

“I am glad to see you here, Graham. This ex- 
amination is going to be a stiff one, but you are not 
one of the kind to be easily frightened.'' 

Philip went to work doggedly. He compelled 
himself to think only of the subjects before him. 

“Ancient history and poetry are all right in their 
places,'' he said to himself with a whimsical smile, 
“but what John Montgomery wants is a thorough 
knowledge of the geography of Emmet County and 
the exact formula for cube root.” 

He passed creditably. Montgomery spoke en- 
couragingly regarding Philip's work and promised 
to visit him soon after school opened. 

That fall Philip spent a week in Chicago. Bruce, 
the coachman at Idlewild, had never ceased to re- 
gard Philip with favor. So many horses were en- 
trusted to the faithful Scotchman for the voyage 
from Harbor Springs to Chicago that it was neces- 
sary for him to have an assistant. 


New Work 


77 

'‘Come with me, Philip,” he said. “While there 
is no big sum of money in it, it will pay you for 
your time. You’ll see a bit of the great world. The 
good wife will be glad to have you with us while 
you see the town.” 

Under the guidance of Bruce, Philip managed to 
see much of the great city. It was a revelation to 
him, yet he was not sorry to return to the forest and 
the bay. 

He busied himself with various tasks until the be- 
ginning of school. One thing that worried him was 
leaving Doctor Mills. 

The doctor seemed to divine Philip’s thoughts. 
“Don’t think about me,” he said with a shrug of his 
shoulders. “I’ll keep as straight as I can, but only 
for your sake.” 

Philip went to the scene of his labor on Saturday 
afternoon. He found his fears confirmed regarding 
his boarding place. The house was dirty, there were 
a half dozen little children, all rude and untaught, 
and a slovenly mother. His bed was in a cold and 
cheerless upper room. 

Philip was exceedingly neat regarding his sur- 
roundings. The cottage had been kept in as dainty 
order during the time he had lived alone as in the 
days of the rule of his mother or Mrs. King. 

“I’ll stay here a few weeks,” he thought. “When 
I become acquainted, I can make a change.” 

Sunday passed slowly. Monday morning he went 
to the schoolhouse early. The inside was a degree 
more gloomy that the exterior, but Philip built a 
bright fire and waited the coming of his pupils. 


yS Entering Into His Own 

There was only a score of them. Some were 
nearly as old as Philip, and the young teacher found 
himself looking forward with some anxiety. 

Four days went by. Philip found his work irk- 
some. The children were rude, having had little 
to develop the more gentle side of their natures. The 
young teacher exacted obedience and order, but he 
feared that his pupils looked upon him with disfavor. 

Thursday evening he sat at his desk after all the 
children had gone home. Gloomy as the school- 
house was it was more pleasant than Mrs. 
Riley’s noisy, dirty sitting-room. Matthew Arnold’s 
“Literature or Dogma” lay open before him, and he 
was straining his eyes to read one page more when 
the outside door opened. A musical voice called out : 

“Is the schoolmaster at home to callers?” 

The voice rather than the words wakened a re- 
sponsive thrill in Philip’s heart. He sprang up. 

“He is at home to callers, but so new to his work 
that the name frightens him.” 

“Ah, that is good. Modesty is fast going out of 
fashion. I am Rex Abbot, pastor of the little church 
down here and your neighbor. The minister and the 
pedagogue must work together. You did not come 
to hear me preach Sunday, so I dropped in to in- 
vite you to prayer-meeting to-night.” 

Rex Abbot was twenty-four but looked even 
younger. He was tall and exceedingly slender. His 
complexion was a pale olive, and his face was 
smoothly-shaven. He had brown eyes, mystical 
f eves into which Philip longed to gaze and gaze. 


New Work 


79 


'Why did you not come to church?’’ 

“I — why, I hardly know. Somehow I’ve fallen 
into the habit of staying away from church.” 

He had already drawn forward the single chair 
for his guest. Mr. Abbot sat down, saying: 

“That is not a good habit. Neither is that book 
a good one for you, not at the present time anyway. 
Don’t think me presuming. To be young is no sin.” 

“That’s fortunate for you as a minister,” Philip 
responded gayly, and the two young men joined in 
a hearty laugh. 

Then they proceeded to talk of themselves. Rex 
had entered upon his field of labor only a few weeks 
before. Near the church was a parsonage which he 
described as “a queer little box of a place.” His 
sister Helen was with him. She was three years 
his junior and his housekeeper. 

“I was always a bookish boy,” the minister went 
on, “and my home being at Evanston, Illinois, al- 
most in sight of the great Northwestern University, 
I was able to enter there when very young. I gradu- 
ated two years ago last June as Bachelor of Arts. 
Already I had decided to devote myself to the min- 
istry of God’s holy word, and I entered that division 
of the college known as the Garrett Biblical Institute, 
intending to take the degree course of Bachelor of 
Divinity. This would have taken me three years. 
Our mother died two years ago, our father when 
Helen was a babe. An unfortunate investment of 
our means swept away the money designed for 
Helen’s and my education, and we left school.” 


8o Entering Into His Own 

“Oh, that was too bad !’' Philip cried. 

“Nay, I see in it God’s plan for me. I sought a 
position, and this was offered me. Helen had been 
a student at the school of music and lacked but one 
year of completing her course. I wished her to 
finish, but she would not hear of my coming up here 
in the wilderness alone. So here we both are, at 
your service.” 

The two young men talked for an hour. Philip 
spoke of his own lonely life, and Rex Abbot read be- 
tween the lines. 

“I believe we are here to help each other,” he said, 
rising. The little room had grown dark, the only 
light being a ruddy glow from the stove. “You’ll 
come to-night and commence your share of the help- 
ing, will you not?” 

“I will come, but I can be no help,” Philip said 
frankly. “All I can do is to listen. I can sing a 
little, a very little.” 

“Sing! What a priceless treasure you will prove 
to Helen! You will understand that better after you 
have attended a few meetings. I am sorry you can- 
not help us in other ways, but perhaps we can help 
you. (k)od-by for a few hours.” 


I 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE ABBOTS. 

P hilip went to the prayer-meeting, as he had 
promised. There were present a half dozen 
women, two farmers, a few boys, and the 
Abbots. 

Helen Abbot resembled her brother. She was 
stronger, for her cheeks were flushed with a healthy 
pink, and she seemed replete with vigorous life. In 
a voice much like that of Rex she greeted Philip 
with frank friendliness. 

“Rex says you sing. I am so glad ! We need all 
the help we can get.’' 

“But I said only a little,” and Philip’s sensi- 
tive face reddened. “You will find me poor 
help.” 

She smiled up at him. “We will be glad of even 
a little help. You see, Mr. Graham, my broth- 
er’s throat is weak. The extreme cold and his 
public speaking tires it so, so I always lead the sing- 
ing.” 

Philip had a good voice. It had received only the 
training given it in the public school. In his attend- 
ance upon the Bay View Assembly the boy had heard 
some good singing, and he was anxious to learn. 


82 Entering Into His Own 

He took the book Helen handed him, resolved to do 
his best. 

There was a small organ in the church, and Helen 
played. The women and some of the boys joined 
in the singing. Philip began to understand Helen's 
need of help. 

The service was simple but heartfelt. It was not 
the faltering prayers and testimonies of the people 
of the place that touched Philip. Neither was it 
Helen Abbot’s few well-chosen words. 

It was Rex who impressed the young teacher. 
The pastor’s face looked boyish in the dimly-lighted 
room. He used plain, forcible language that a child 
could understand. Of salvation through Christ and 
of a life devoted to God’s service he spoke in such a 
way that all present saw that to the speaker these 
things were all in all. 

As Rex talked, a strange change came to his 
countenance. It was as if it was lighted by an inner 
glow, as if his clear eyes looked beyond the veil and 
saw the mysteries of “the holy city, new Jerusalem.” 
Philip was not surprised to see tears flowing down 
the cheeks of some of the women. Something rose 
in his own throat and obstructed his breathing. 

At the close of the service Helen joined Philip. 

“Your little help means much to me, Mr. Graham. 
Will you not come Saturday evening to dinner and 
help me practice the hymns for the Sunday morning 
service ?” 

Before Philip could reply, Rex, who had heard 
what his sister said, added : 


The Abbots 


83 

‘'Come early, Graham. There are a dozen things 
I want to talk to you about. I don’t know just how 
it is, but at the sight of you my heart warmed.” 

Philip gladly accepted the invitation. His own 
heart was strangely light as he walked along under 
the bright stars. All round him stretched a white 
waste, for winter comes early to that northern land. 

“I believe I’ve found a friend,” he said to him- 
self, “a real friend.” 

The next day school went better. While Philip 
did not find his work pleasant he conscientiously 
tried to do it well. 

Saturday morning he went for a long ramble. 
The snow was not yet deep enough to allow him to 
use his snowshoes. He wandered about through the 
forest, where stately pines towered aloft, their green 
tops and the leafless branches of the oaks and maples 
outlined against the brilliant blue sky. 

Only a half mile from the schoolhouse Philip came 
upon a place where preparations were being made to 
place a sawmill. He stopped to talk with one of the 
teamsters who was at work near. 

“Mill won’t be put in ’til spring,” the man said. 
“See all this timber round ’bout here? We’re going 
to work at it soon, gitting it ready for the mill. 
There’s thousands of dollars worth of lumber here, 
and it’ll make things lively for two years. That’s 
the boss over there, Tom Green. He’s a rusher. 
The company he works under air Chicago men.” 

The teamster knew Philip was the teacher. It 
was plainly to be seen that the young man’s knowl- 


84 Entering Into His Own 

edge of lumbering increased the others’ confidence in 
him. 

‘‘But then you live in these here parts. Strange 
-what a lot of ignorance there be in a town like Chica- 
go,” and he leaned one arm, clad in a picturesque 
red and blue striped Mackinac shirt, on the neck of 
the horse nearest him. “Now there’s our minister 
and his sister. They’re the best folks as ever was. 
My wife says so, and she knows. But land ! They 
don’t know a thing ’bout life. Hardly know one 
kind of pine from ’nother. And it tickled me ’most 
to death to hear that girl take on and ask questions 
’bout them rascally Indians.” 

Philip strolled on. The time was spent out of 
doors until the hour arrived for him to make his 
toilet for the evening. 

He dressed with the utmost care. The Abbots 
should see that, in some respects, he was different 
from these farmers and lumbermen. 

When he arrived at the parsonage, he saw Rex 
splitting wood in the side yard. The house was long 
and low. It was situated at the crossing of two 
roads, and in what seemed to be the front of the 
building Philip could see no door. He followed the 
path round to where he had seen Rex. The young 
minister dropped the ax and came forward, his hand 
extended. 

“Glad to see you, Graham. Helen had begun to 
fear you were not coming.” 

As they stepped upon the little porch from which 
two doors opened, he went on: 


The Abbots 


85 

hope you will be a frequent visitor, so I’ll pro- 
ceed at once to show off the eccentricities of our 
abode. Helen and I spend all our spare time won- 
dering why there is no front door. We have not 
arrived at a conclusion yet. This door leads into 
the woodhouse. Our visitors who are not familiar 
with the place always knock upon it, to the confusion 
of Helen. This is the reception hall, also the 
kitchen.” 

It was a small room, floor and walls painted a 
cheerful buff. There was a well-blacked stove in 
which a fire was burning. 

From there the host led the way to the dining- 
room. The table was neatly spread, there was a 
wood stove, and doors stood ajar into two small 
sleeping-rooms. Next came the sitting-room, a 
large apartment warmed both by a stove and a fire- 
place. Beyond was Helen’s room. 

Philip glanced round the apartment in which he 
found himself. It bore the impress of a refined 
woman’s personality. There was a heavy carpet 
on the floor. The walls were covered with a soft 
gray paper, making an effective background for 
many simple etchings, sketches, and photographs. 
At the windows were long white ruffled curtains. 
There was a couch heaped with pretty cushions, com- 
fortable chairs, three low cases filled with books, and 
a piano, which stood open. 

“It is all Helen’s work,” Rex said, reading his 
guest’s face aright. “It means much to a woman to 
have a bit of pretty home life. The piano now — it 


86 Entering Into His Own 

was an undertaking to get it up here, but it is more 
to that sister of mine than food/’ 

Helen came from her room and greeted Philip 
with apparent pleasure. She made a charming pic- 
ture of housewifery in a gray skirt, a crimson flannel 
blouse, white linen collar, and long white apron. 

“Helen does all our work, except the washing, 
with only the aid of a woman who comes for two 
hours every morning,” Rex explained. 

The young men talked easily, finding no lack of 
subjects upon which to converse. Rex placed his 
library at Philip’s disposal and offered his assistance 
in the other’s studies. 

“There are many things you can do for me in re- 
turn,” he said, in response to Philip’s expressions of 
gratitude. “Why, I am as ignorant as a babe about 
this wondrous forest. I want to learn. Somehow 
God seems nearer up here where the world and its 
petty vanities are shut out.” 

The dinner table was another picture to Philip’s 
eyes. Silver and glass sparkled, and the table ware 
was white and gold china. There was soup, a pork 
roast with creamed potatoes, apple sauce, and bread 
and butter. Last came coffee, fruit cake and nuts. 

Notwithstanding the loneliness of Philip’s past 
life he was at ease. Indeed it seemed to him as if 
the dainty table service and the intellectual conver- 
sation were things for which he had been waiting 
all his life. 

Aiter dinner they had an hour’s practice on the 
morrow’s hymns. Helen saw that she could help 


The Abbots 


87 

Philip improve his voice. She offered to do so in 
such a spirit of friendliness that it caused him no 
embarrassment to accept. When the practicing was 
finished Rex said: 

'‘Now give Graham some good music. He has 
earned it.’’ 

Helen smiled and let her fingers glide into a 
symphony of Mozart’s. Philip straightway forgot 
his surroundings. Leaning his heard against the 
high back of his chair, he looked into the dancing 
flames of the wood fire and gave himself up to the 
enjoyment that was so new to him. 

The girl played on and on. Her perfect touch and 
sympathetic rendering were not lost upon Philip. 
His mind wandered afar in a dreamland of beauty. 
Evoked by the melody, wondrous pictures were 
shaped among the flames. 

The music ceased, and Philip started as from a 
dream. Brother and sister exchanged understand- 
ing glances. 

"How can I ever thank you ?” The young teacher 
turned a radiant face to Helen. 

"By letting me play for you again,” was her 
cheery reply. 

They talked a little longer. Then Philip went 
back to his dreary boarding-place, Charles Dudley 
Warner’s "Backlog Studies” in his pocket. 

The next morning Philip was promptly in his 
place at church. There was a fair-sized congrega- 
tion, a few Indians being among the number. 

Philip never forgot that sermon, the first one he 


88 Entering Into His Own 

ever heard Rex Abbot preach. The text was from 
Christ's own words to his disciples, as re- 
corded by John, ‘T have meat to eat that ye 
know not of." 

A great truth came home to Philip Graham that 
wintry morning. Before he had given the matter 
little thought; in that hour he realized that those 
into whose hearts Christ had entered indeed had 
meat to eat that the world knew not of. 

It was that which had enabled his young mother 
gladly to go out from life, leaving him, her beloved 
child, in God’s care. It had crowned the humble, 
toiling life of Mrs. King with peace and joy. It had 
stamped upon Rex Abbot’s face a look that was not 
of earth and enabled him to turn, with delight, from 
a studious, leisurely life to one of hardship that he 
might thereby win some soul to Christ. 

The finding of congenial friends transformed life 
for Philip Graham. He saw much of the Abbots. 
There was only one service in the little church each 
Sabbath, but every Sunday afternoon Rex walked 
three miles through the forest to preach at a school- 
house. 

Philip often accompanied him on these walks. 
The first time he did so he was surprised to learn 
how little physical strength and endurance Rex 
possessed. The minister was very tired when they 
reached the schoolhouse, but preached a good ser- 
mon. On the latter part of the walk home he grew 
strangely silent. Philip accompanied him to the 
parsonage. 


The Abbots 


89 

‘‘I am dead tired,” Rex admitted, sinking into a 
chair before the grate. '‘What’s that, Helen? Lie 
down a few minutes? Why, what would Graham 
think ?*’ 

“That you are sensible,” Philip said with ready 
tact. “You are not used to our snow and rough 
roads. I well remember how it tired me to tramp 
over Chicago pavements.” 

Helen shot at him a grateful glance. Rex donned 
the slippers his sister had warmed for him and lay 
down upon the couch. Helen covered him with a 
blanket, and in five minutes his breathing showed 
that he slept. 

“These walks are too much for him,” Philip said 
in a low voice. 

Helen sighed. “Rex is not strong. Then, he is 
too engrossed in his work to realize how he is over- 
taxing himself. I cannot help being uneasy about 
him.” 

“I am going to teach him to walk upon snow- 
shoes,” Philip declared. “Then he can make the 
trip much easier. Don’t worry. Miss Abbot. When 
our wondrous summer comes, your brother will 
grow strong and hearty.” 

After an hour Rex woke, rested and hungry. 
Helen’s hot coffee and oysters were relished by both 
the young men. 

School often tired and puzzled Philip. John 
Montgomery visited him, according to the promise 
he had made. By pointing out some mistakes and 
showing him how to better classify his pupils, the 


90 Entering Into His Own 

commissioner was able to help Philip. Still, teaching 
was not agreeable to him. 

“It is good discipline for you,'' Helen Abbot said 
one evening, when Philip was at the parsonage. 
“Besides, think of the opportunities you have to do 
good. What you are teaching the children of neat- 
ness and order is worth much to them." 

“But that is not my idea of real teaching." Philip 
spoke earnestly. “It is their minds I am concerned 
about. Rex thinks only of their souls, and you. 
Miss Abbot — " 

He stopped abruptly. Helen nodded her head and 
smiled. 

“You might as well say it. I think of their bodies. 
In one way you are right. Rex questions my wis- 
dom in teaching some of these women wholesome 
cooking and simple sewing, but I mean my inter- 
course with them to be uplifting. I commence with 
something they are interested in, and I try to make 
even these earthly things speak of our Father's love 
and care." 

“I believe you are right," Philip exclaimed, while 
Rex looked across at his sister, a light that was good 
to see in his dark eyes. 

“Right! I am sure Helen is never wrong." 

“If there is one thing more than another that I 
long to teach people it is to see the beauty in their 
own lives and to make the most of it," the girl went 
on, a wistful expression on her face. “No life need 
be sordid and mean. Even when sorrow comes, we 
can trust and be contented." 


The Abbots 


91 


Philip saw a great sympathy upon the face of 
Rex. It startled him. Was there some sorrow in 
those cheery, helpful lives ? 

The salary of the young pastor was not a large 
one. The board of missions paid him something, 
but from his parishioners he received little save fuel 
and a liberal share of the things they raised. 

Rex told his new friend that they had a small in- 
come left from the wreck of their fortune. 

“Not enough for us to complete our education — 
not just now,^^ he added. “It’s enough, though, so 
I can provide Helen with comforts.” 

One Saturday afternoon before Christmas Philip 
went to the parsonage. He knew Rex would be ab- 
sent on a round of pastoral calls. Helen remonstrat- 
ed, but Philip spent the afternoon splitting the wood 
in the yard and filling the woodhouse. 

“Why, it is nothing,’^ was his response to her 
earnest thanks. “What would I not do for your 
brother ? And this has been mere play to me ; I am 
so strong.” 

She made him stay for dinner. As they were sit- 
ting before the fire; waiting for Rex, Helen said : 

“I am going to make a startling proposition to 
you, Philip. If it does not please you, say so frank- 
ly. Will you not come here to board ?” 

For a moment Philip was too surprised to speak. 
At last he gasped: “Do you mean it? It would 
be — oh. I’ve no words to tell you how well I would 
like it!” 

Helen smiled. She spoke of the unpleasantness 


92 Entering Into His Own 

of the Riley home. His presence would be most 
helpful to Rex. Philip watched over his friend, re- 
fusing to allow him to overdo. 

It was all arranged before the coming of Rex. 
When the plan was made known to him he was 
greatly pleased. So it was arranged that Philip 
should come to his new home the next Monday. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A NEW HOME. 

P hilip found the winter passing most pleas- 
antly. He knew he did good work as an in- 
structor, but he seemed to lack the sympa- 
thetic insight that enables the true teacher to enter 
into the thoughts and feelings of his pupils and 
rouse them to their best. His youth had something 
to do with this ; he was still too young to fully com- 
prehend the nature of his work. 

' The teacher's well-known strength and manliness 
kept the older pupils from making any trouble. The 
Rileys did their best to rouse a feeling of ill will, 
for they were offended because Philip left their 
home. Helen tried to heal this breach by telling 
Mrs. Riley that she had asked Philip to come to the 
parsonage. 

“He does so much to help us,” she said, with 
a winning smile. “I do not mean to be sel- 
fish, but perhaps I am where my brother is con- 
cerned.” 

“ 'Tain't that I care 'bout,” Mrs. Riley hastened 
to say, for she was fond of Helen. “You and the 
parson has a right to the best. But this young Gra- 


94 Entering Into His Own 

ham is jest common folks, like the rest of us. This 
settin’ of himself up and readin’ so much — why, it’s 
all nonsense in him.” 

These annoyances were all forgotten in the hours 
when the trio gathered round the fire. They talked 
of their past and present, but it was to the future 
that the most of their thoughts were given. That 
rosy-hued future which ever beckons on the ambi- 
tious youth was very fair to the eyes of Philip Gra- 
ham. 

Rex and Helen encouraged him to plan for a col- 
lege education. 

*‘Of course you can earn it,” Rex cried confident- 
ly. ^Tt will take time and hard work, but you’ve 
plenty of the first and unlimited capacity for the 
second. I’ll hunt up a catalogue, and we will de- 
cide on your course. Then you can shape your stud- 
ies to it.” 

It was soon settled that he should lay his plans 
to attend the Northwestern University. Rex and 
Helen did not urge it upon him, yet they seemed to 
think it natural, that he should go there. 

Over the selection of a course there was a long 
discussion. Rex favored the classical, but Philip 
was firm. 

'T know I am a dreamer, but the scientific holds 
the things I must have. Zoology, botany, miner- 
alogy — oh, I must have them !” 

“But you’ll not have Latin or Greek,” Rex ob- 
jected. 

‘T’ll have German, and that’s more practical. 


A New Home 


95 

There! Hear that! I fear I will lose my prestige 
as a dreamer. There will be time enough for Latin 
as a special. One thing I must have, and that is 
political economy.’’ 

Rex shrugged his shoulders. ‘Thilip, you are 
an anomaly. What does a seer of visions want of 
political science and mineralogy? Imagination is 
your strong point.” 

“Emerson says, 'Science does not know its debt 
to imagination.’ ” 

“There you are again — quoting Emerson ! Why 
don’t you read Carlyle? He says, and I think he 
said it for you, ‘It is a man’s sincerity and depth of 
vision that makes him a poet.’ That ought to con- 
tent you with your calling.” 

Helen rose and walked over to a bookcase. “You 
are both right in a way. Rex, let me read you 
a bit from your favorite’s ‘Heroes and Hero Wor- 
ship.’ ” 

After a moment spent in turning the leaves she 
read, “This world, after all our science and sciences, 
is still a miracle, wonderful, inscrutable, magical to 
whomsoever will think of it.” 

Rex drew a long breath. “Dear old Carlyle ! He 
puts it so tersely. Well, I suppose scientific it is to 
be. A four-years’ course with a B.S. as its goal. 
Remember, though, that you will do your best work 
with the objective sciences.” 

It was not long before Rex contracted a severe 
cold. His cough worried Helen. When he an- 
nounced that, early in February, he should begin a 


96 Entering Into His Own 

series of evening meetings at the church, she ven- 
tured a remonstrance. 

‘‘Please don’t, dear,” she coaxed. “Your regular 
work is all you are able to do. Remember, Doctor 
Carpenter said this climate would do you good, pro- 
viding you took the best possible care of yourself.” 

The young man looked at his sister almost de- 
fiantly. “Helen, even you do not understand me. 
What is my ease, my health — nay, what is my life 
in comparison with immortal souls? Now that work 
has opened on the mill yard there is card-playing 
and carousing every night at the place they call the 
‘shanty.’ I must reach these men.” 

Helen was not silenced. “Can you not do it in 
some other way than by evening meetings? Or, if 
you feel that these must be, cannot you get some 
minister to come here and help you? Constant 
speaking, especially at night, will keep your throat 
in an irritated condition.” 

Rex shook his head. “This is my work, Helen. 
God has given it to me. My time may not be long, 
but, dear sister, I must do my duty.” 

Philip saw how much the decision grieved Helen. 
Strong and vigorous himself, the youth did not com- 
prehend the danger of his friend. It was with a 
hope of allaying the sister’s fears that he urged Rex 
to go to Harbor Springs and consult Doctor Mills. 

“I will go with you,” he said. “My conscience 
reproaches me that I have let so many weeks go by 
without seeing my old friend.” 

It was arranged that they should go on the fol- 


A New Home 


97 

lowing Saturday. They would drive, as the sleigh- 
ing was excellent, and Helen would accompany 
them. 

Philip had notified the doctor of their coming. 
All were agreeably surprised to learn that Doctor 
Mills had kept fires burning in the cottage for two 
days. Nor was that all. He had engaged Mrs. 
Perrine to go there and prepare dinner for them all. 

“You had written how kind these Abbots had 
been to you,” he said to Philip. “I knew you loved 
the old home and thought you would like to enter- 
tain your friends there.” 

“It is just what I wanted to do, but I thought it 
was impossible. You always think of the right 
thing,” and Philip’s glowing face repaid the doc- 
tor for all his trouble. 

The doctor joined them at dinner. They had a 
merry time. Helen, with her tender heart and 
womanly sympathy, was strongly attracted to the 
broken-down man in whose eyes she read so much of 
loneliness and pain. 

“Philip has told us all about your kindness to 
him,” she said to Doctor Mills. They stood before 
the dining-room fire, Rex and Philip having risen 
from the table to go to the bookcases. “There is a 
bright future before the boy, and it must be a great 
comfort to you to know the good he may do in the 
world is made possible by what you did for him.” 

“I? Oh, you do not understand. Miss Abbot! 
All I did for Phil was to see that he had a home and 
a certain sort of care, not always good. He has a 


98 Entering Into His Own 

wonderful mind, but it was his inheritance from his 
parents.” 

“God gave it to Philip for his own good will. 
Doctor Mills, God also gave you the opportunity to 
help in this, his will, and you have been faithful 
to the trust.” 

Years of dissipation and of exposure to the north- 
ern winds had changed Doctor Mills’ florid face to 
a dull purple. It grew suddenly pale as he re- 
plied : 

“You are mistaken. I have no part in God’s plan, 
no part.” 

Helen came a step nearer, her face aglow with a 
strange radiance. 

“Do not say that. Doctor Mills. It does not rest 
with you and me. God never casts us off. We may 
defeat his plans for us, but his patience and love are 
infinite.” 

Doctor Mills turned away, walked to the window, 
and stood looking out over the snow-covered bay. 
It was Helen who broke the silence that fell between 
them. 

“What do you think of my brother ? I know you 
examined his throat.” 

The doctor came back to his former position on 
the hearth rug, as he said, “Your brother is consti- 
tutionally delicate. This climate in summer will do 
much to build him up. Even in winter it will do 
him no harm, if he is extremely careful both of 
fatigue and exposure.” 

Helen sighed. Before she could speak the two 


A New Home 


99 

young men joined them. In a short time they 
started on the homeward drive. 

Rex commenced his meetings the next week. The 
little church was filled every night. From the farms 
near, from the adjacent lumber camp, even from the 
little town four miles away, crowds came to listen 
to the impassioned words of the young minister. 

The words were not of his own choosing. No 
matter whether his hearers agreed or disagreed with 
him, they could not deny that Rex Abbot held him- 
self to be God’s messenger. 

The message he gave was God’s love and, be- 
cause of that love, man’s redemption through Christ. 
There were no dramatic attempts to frighten those 
who listened. In earnest, often in fervent words, 
Rex showed his hearers the barrenness of a life 
without Christ. 

On the other hand he spoke of the joy of com- 
munion with the Savior, who suffered and died for 
man’s redemption. All who listened, even the stolid 
Indians who sometimes occupied seats near the door, 
felt that it was possible for life to hold for them 
better things than they had yet attained. 

'T can’t tell you just how it is,” a woman, wife of 
one of the lumbermen, said to Helen one evening, 
“but when I listen to your brother I feel as if God 
had work for even me, and as if he stood ready to 
help me do it.” 

The meetings bore fruit. One after another of 
the men and women who listened to Rex’s pleading 
heeded and accepted Christ as a personal Savior. 

ILofC. 


loo Entering Into His Own 

As is always the case, there was opposition to the 
spirit of the meetings. There were those who 
scoffed, deriding both Rex and his followers. Chief 
among these were Tom Green, the foreman at the 
lumber camp, and Mr. Riley. 

Even their laughter and rough jests died away 
when they stood face to face with Rex. Tom 
Green said to him not unkindly : 

“Fve nothing in particular against you, parson, 
but this neighborhood would be better off without 
you. Mill men are always a rough, swearing lot, 
and we have to work on Sunday. You are spoiling 
my men.” 

Rex talked long and earnestly to the overseer, who 
listened with a flippant sneer upon his lips. Yet 
they parted without any outward show of anger. 

Philip disappointed Rex. The young teacher at- 
tended every service, helping in the singing. 
Through all he sat unmoved, often with a look of 
dreamy abstraction upon his face. 

“Why is it, Philip, that you reject Christ?” Rex 
asked a little wearily one evening. They had just 
returned from the church, and the two young men 
were alone in the sitting-room. 

“I? Why, I don’t reject him, Rex. It is simply 
that I do not need him. Now that’s not just what 
I mean, but I can’t share your feeling in this matter. 
I believe in God as a Creator, and often my heart is 
filled with gratitude. But your fervor is not for 
me. 

Rex looked sorrowfully at his friend. “Oh, Philip, 


A New Home 


lOI 


that is a worn-out excuse! You need Christ; he is 
a need of every nature. No life is complete without 
him.” 

Philip’s expressive face showed that he did not 
accept his friend’s words. ^‘My life cannot be like 
yours, but, in its way, it shall be a complete one.” 

Again and again the subject was discussed be- 
tween the two. Philip believed that the chief dif- 
ference in their points of view was because Rex’s 
nature was an intensely religious one. As for him, 
his thoughts were fully occupied with dreams of 
the future. 

Helen also talked with Philip. It was more diffi- 
cult for him to reply to her gentle words than to 
those of her brother. He did it, though, and Helen 
was obliged to own herself defeated. 

The meetings continued four weeks, and the face 
of the young minister grew thin and wan. He con- 
tinued to cough. Both Helen and Philip watched 
over him, relieving him in every possible way of 
work or care. 

"Tt is not his physical labor that wears him out,” 
Helen said to Philip. “It is the responsibility of his 
work and the fear lest he leave something undone.” 

Philip’s difficulties in school had lessened but not 
ceased. Mr. Riley had made the teacher feel the 
weight of his displeasure in many ways. The mid- 
dle of March the term of school would close, but, 
after a two-weeks’ vacation, there would be a spring 
term. It had been understood when Philip was en- 
gaged that he should teach the two terms, but this 


102 Entering Into His Own 

contract was for the first only. He began to fear 
that Mr. Riley would try to make him trouble. 

It was the week after the close of the meetings 
that Philip sought the president of the school board, 
resolved to have a definite understanding. He went 
to the farmhouse at the close of school. Mrs. Riley 
said her husband was at the barn, and Philip went 
there. He stated his errand briefly. 

“Humph!” the farmer growled, not taking the 
trouble to remove his pipe from between his teeth. 
“I sposed you knowed we’d had ’nugh of you. I’ve 
hired Carrie Barney to teach the spring term. I got 
her cheap, and she’s to board to my house. She 
hain’t too good to live with common folks.” 

Philip was indignant. “I don’t think you have 
treated me fairly — ” he began, but the other inter- 
rupted him. 

“Don’t care what you think. You hain’t no good, 
anyhow. You’ll never ’mount to nothing long as 
you keep trying to stick yourself in with your bet- 
ters.” 

Philip was too angry to allow himself to speak. 
He strode away, not toward the parsonage, but off 
across the country in the direction of the mill. 

After the passing of the first flush of anger, de- 
jection took possession of him. Back to him came 
something of the bitterness toward the world which 
had often swayed him when living alone at the cot- 
tage. 

“I have failed,” he murmured. “Is Riley right? 
Have I no place in the world of culture and thought ? 


A N ew Home 


103 

Perhaps I might as well give up the hope of college 
and settle down to work as a day laborer.” 

Putting his vague doubt of himself into words 
steadied Philip. Give up? Give up all his dreams 
of future success? 

His mother had thought there was a place in the 
world for him. Helen and Rex thought so. He 
would find it. One failure, two — nay, a score should 
not dishearten him. He threw back his head with 
the old proud gesture and strode on. 

Philip was late at dinner that night. Helen saw 
that something unusual had happened, but she asked 
him no questions. 

She was not obliged to wait long for an explana- 
tion. Before they rose from the table Philip told of 
his interview with Mr. Riley. 

The faces of brother and sister expressed their 
consternation. Helen cried: 

“Why, Philip, I cannot think of your going away 
from us! What will we do without you?” 

“I could not think of it, so I am not going. As 
soon as school closes I am to commence work as a 
chopper for Tom Green. The hours will be more, 
and the work will require a greater outlay of 
strength, but I am not sure but it will be more satis- 
fying. Will you board a lumberman, Helen? I 
warn you his appetite will be alarm.ing.” 

At first the Abbots were inclined to doubt the 
wisdom of Philip’s choice. However, after some 
discussion, they accepted his view of the matter. 
Rex suggested that another school could be found. 


104 Entering Into His Own 

but Philip declared he had had enough of teaching 
and would earn the money for his education in some 
other way. With the light-hearted trustfulness of 
youth the trio rejoiced that their companionship was 
not to be disturbed and left the future to take care 
of itself. 


CHAPTER X. 


A DELIGHTFUL SUMMER. 

P hilip began his work in the woods on the 
Monday following the close of school. For 
the first few days he found the labor most 
arduous, but he soon became accustomed to it. His 
outdoor life had given him great strength. Some of 
his fellow workmen were rough and disagreeable, 
others Philip cordially liked. The fact that his la- 
bor could be carried on under the open sky recom- 
pensed him for much. 

On the Saturday before commencing work, Philip 
went to Harbor Springs. Doctor Mills smiled a 
little grimly over his ward’s change of occupation. 

“It will not hurt you, lad. I wish I had the money 
to send you to college next year. She — that sweet- 
faced Helen — said — ” 

He stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished. 
Philip was so eager to assure him that no help was 
needed, that he let the uncompleted remark pass 
without comment. 

After a few minutes Doctor Mills roused himself 
to question Philip concerning the state of Rex’s 
health. A scowl furrowed the physician’s brow as 
he listened to the reply. 


io6 Entering Into His Own 

“That youngster is a fool ! He will kill himself, 
fussing over the souls of those ignoramuses. Souls ! 
The most of them have neither soul nor mind. 
There! You need not tell Miss Abbot I said that. 
She is a surprising girl, Phil, and is determined to 
think the best of everything, even me.’' 

Rex did not cease his labors because the meetings 
had closed. He watched over his converts, tak- 
ing long tramps through the woods to visit them 
and letting their faults rob him of appetite and 
sleep. 

Helen longed for warm weather. Snow re- 
mained on the ground through April. Rex con- 
tinued to cough, and Philip wrote Doctor Mills, 
proposing that the physician make a visit to himself 
an excuse for seeing Rex again. 

The doctor came in a few days. He arrived late 
in the afternoon and at once accepted the invitation 
to remain over night. 

Helen made him most welcome. Philip had told 
the Abbots all about Doctor Mills. The misspent 
life saddened Helen; she longed to help the man 
whose present was so barren of happiness and whose 
future stretched so drearily before him. 

Doctor Mills spoke very plainly to Rex. “You 
are deliberately committing suicide,” and the doc- 
tor’s eyes, unsteady as they usually were, met and 
held the young minister’s gaze. “You’ve no right 
to do that; the ‘thou shalt not kill’ in the book you 
prize makes your own life as sacred as is that of your 
fellow man. Besides, you’ve no business to leave 


A Delightful Summer 107 

that sister of yours alone in the world. If my own 
years of pain have taught me to recognize it in 
others, her life is not all sunshine.’' 

Rex started. “You are right, Doctor Mills. 
Helen is a noble girl, and I owe her a duty. For 
her sake I must consider this frail body of mine. 
But do not advise me to give up my work.” 

“You must rest from it this summer. To live on 
the water and in the pine woods is your best chance 
to store up strength enough to carry you through 
another winter like your last.” 

When Philip learned Doctor Mills’ advice he pro- 
posed a plan that instantly met with Helen’s ap- 
proval. The middle of June Tom Green would move 
his choppers to another locality to finish a job al- 
ready begun. Three months later he would return, 
the mill would be started up, and fifty men would be 
employed. 

“He has offered me the position of bookkeeper 
and clerk,” Philip went on. “I am also to help in- 
spect the lumber, and the salary is a good one. 
Green does not need me this summer. Let us all 
go down to my cottage and spend the summer. Rex 
will grow well and strong, while I will have time 
for study.” 

It took some time to gain the consent of Rex, but 
at last it was won. A college friend was to take the 
young minister’s place while he was away. The 
middle of June saw the Abbots and Philip settled at 
the cottage. 

The beauty of that northland summer was a 


io8 Entering Into His Own 

revelation to Helen. She shared Philip's passionate 
admiration for the bay. The song of the wind 
in the pines thrilled her with a keen delight, for 
the harmony of sound touched Helen’s inner con- 
sciousness even more than the beauty of form or 
color. 

The days were crowded full of pleasures. They 
explored the places of interest in the neighborhood, 
climbing the bluff back of the town for views of 
the bay. They visited the resorts and admired the 
beautiful summer homes. Philip’s sailboat was 
christened the “Helen,” and in it they went skim- 
ming over the water, enjoying the sunrises and sun- 
sets and even venturing out when the white-capped 
waves lifted their crests and dashed into foam on 
the beach. 

Then there were happy hours on the broad veran- 
da where there was always a cool breeze and a view 
of the bay. A hammock, rockers and cushions made 
it a cozy place. There they brought their books. 
Again Helen’s guitar and the voices of the trio made 
the air vibrate with melody. 

Acting under Doctor Mills’s advice, Philip sold a 
site for a cottage. The village was growing in that 
direction, and the pretty resort of Wequetonsing 
was close upon the other side. Thus Philip’s prop- 
erty was rapidly rising in value. The price received 
for the lot sold made a considerable addition to the 
sum he was saving for his education. 

When the Bay View Assembly opened, season 
tickets were procured by the party. It took but a 


A Delightful Summer 109 

short time to reach the assembly ground by rail or 
by steamer, as during the resort season boats and 
trains were plentiful. However, economy was the 
watchword with those ambitious students, and they 
made the daily trips in Philip’s sailboat. The lectures 
and concerts were given in the afternoons and even- 
ings, so they had the mornings for other pursuits. 
They often carried a lunch with them and remained 
for the evening entertainment, returning by the light 
of the moon or stars. 

It was a care-free, joyous existence. Life 
stretched fair before them, and many were the 
golden-hued dreams they shared one with another. 

One morning they were seated on the veranda. 
Helen was shelling peas, Rex had been writing at 
a small table, and Philip had just returned from the 
village where he had gone for the mail. 

A few weeks before Philip had sent a carefully- 
prepared version of one of the Indian legends of 
that region to a Detroit paper. He had that day re- 
ceived a copy of the paper in which it was printed, 
also a letter containing a modest check in payment 
for the same. 

While Philip laughed at the extravagant compli- 
ments of his companions, he was much pleased. Rex 
persisted in saying that Philip should have put the 
charming bit of foke-lore in verse. 

“It is settled that you are to be a poet,” he said 
with a merry smile. “Now that is enough to content 
any man. I suppose you have a right to express 
yourself in prose, though, for my favorite Carlyle 


no Entering Into His Own 

says, "A vein of poetry exists in the hearts of all 
men ; no man is made altogether of poetry.’ ” 

'‘Hear his lordship settle the weighty question of 
your future,” Helen cried. “Rex and I never agree 
about poetry. He gives that name to anything 
which rhymes, while I hold that verse is not true 
poetry unless there is music in it.” 

Philip gazed across the bay, a meditative light 
in his eyes. “Real poetry grows, it is not made. 
Only one who has 

‘Heard the whispering of the pine trees, 

Heard the lapping of the water’ 

and heard it with his soul rather than with his ears, 
knows what real poetry is.” 

They understood him. For a brief space they sat 
in silence, then rose to set about the prosaic task of 
getting lunch. 

One day soon after they went to Roaring Brook. 
It was two miles up the bay to the little wharf of 
that resort. The depot was back a short distance, 
being separated from the beach by a stretch of un- 
disturbed forest. The cottages were as yet few in 
I number. A walk led inland, crossing and recross- 
ing the stream which gave the spot its name. This 
path wound upward, the ascent being made in some 
places by means of steps and in others by a sloping 
wooden walk. The path terminated at the top of a 
wide bluff, from which there was a magnificent 
view far across the bay. Upon this bluff stood a 
large hotel known as the Inn. 



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1 1 1 


A Delightful Summer 

Our friends followed the stream. All round 
them the dusky green cedars softened and subdued 
the light. Occasionally the brook narrowed, and 
the water swiftly rippled over pebbles and the 
gnarled roots of the trees only a few paces distant 
again to widen into a placid pool. 

Finally they sat down to rest. A little above them 
a tree had fallen across the stream, its roots extend- 
ing from one side to the other, and the water flowing 
beneath them. Just below this spot the clear stream 
dashed over a ridge of earth and stones, and the 
melody of the miniature waterfall came plainly to 
their ears. 

Sitting there, with the sunbeams slanting down 
in bars of gold through the dense foliage, Philip 
told them the legend of the stream’s name. 

“It was long ago, before the white man came to 
this region. A far-famed warrior had wedded the 
maiden of his choice, and happiness was the portion 
of the young couple. Unfortunately the bride’s 
beauty was so great that an evil spirit, Jeebi, fell in 
love with her. The warrior’s bravery was no match 
for the spirit’s power; Jeebi carried off the maiden. 
In his despair the disconsolate bridegroom threw 
himself into this stream, ending his unhappy life. 
So, as the Indians say, in the voice of the stream 
you hear the chief’s death cry.” 

Helen had leaned nearer the story teller, her hands 
clasped on her knees, and a tender, thoughtful look 
upon her face. “Those poor savages had all the 
characteristics of their white brothers,” she said 


II2 Entering Into His Own 

slowly. ‘They knew love and hate, joy and sorrow, 
revenge and constancy.” 

Rex shrugged his shoulders. “Philip’s story, like 
many another folk-lore tale, needs the gloss of an- 
tiquity to perfect it. It is pretty, but truth compels 
me to remark that there is not water enough here to 
drown even the most love-sick youth. As to the 
warrior’s death song, instead of roaring I should 
call it crooning, in fact, a lullaby.” 

Helen sprang up. “Oh, you hard-hearted realist ! 
You have no business to bring your clear-cut, prac- 
tical nineteenth-century ideas into this summer land 
of beauty and day dreams.” 

Philip had always delighted in tracing the con- 
nection between that region and the one still farther 
north, which is immortalized in Longfellow’s “The 
Song of Hiawatha.” One cool, cloudy August 
morning the little party, while out for a sail, dis- 
cussed the poem. 

They had rounded Harbor Point. Lake Michigan 
was spread out before them — a stretch of dull gray- 
green water that, in the far distance, merged into the 
overcast sky. At the casual glance the surface of 
the lake looked smooth, but a close attention showed 
it to be rising and falling with a rhythmical regu- 
larity. Now and then a low crest of white foam 
lifted itself to view. 

“The poem is a monument to Longfellow’s in- 
dustry,” Rex said a little carelessly. “Many days 
of patient study and research must have gone to the 
making of it” 


A Delightful Summer 113 

Philip frowned. “That is not all, that is but a 
little thing. Critics may sneer and say Longfellow 
never saw the falls of Minnehaha, but none can deny 
that he knew nature and had that insight that en- 
abled him to enter into the spiritual significance of 
the beauty of the material world.” 

Helen smiled over at Philip. “You think the 
poet, like his hero, 


‘Learned of every bird its language, 

Learned their names and all their secrets, 

How they built their nests in summer, 

Where they hid themselves in winter.’ ” 

“Something much like that. He studied the set- 
ting of his scenes well. Many of the word pictures 
he made I have seen in the forest. Often I have 
come upon the pathway ‘Flecked with leafy light 
and shadows.’ Again I have seen 

‘the sun descending, 

Sinking down into the water; 

All the sky is stained with purple. 

All the water flushed with crimson.* ** 

Rex stretched himself at full length in the boat. 
Helen offered the book in her hand to Philip. 

“Read us, if you do not know it, his description 
of the south wind. Ah! Here he is now! It is 
Shawondasee, the south wind, that ruffles the 
water.” 


II4 Entering Into His Own 

Philip opened the book and read : 

“Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 

Had his dwelling far to southward, 

In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, 

In the never-ending summer. 

* * * * ♦ 

From his pipe the smoke ascending 
Filled the sky with haze and vapor, 

Filled the air with dreamy softness, 

Gave a twinkle to the water.” 

Helen’s face dimpled with a merry smile. ‘Toor 
Shawondasee ! Think of a poet calling you Tat and 
lazy!’ And the funny story about his falling in 
love with the prairie dandelion I Now, Philip, give 
me his picture of Wabun. You know it is he, the 
east wind, that steals in at my window each morn- 
ing.” 

Philip turned the leaves and read : 

“Young and beautiful was Wabun; 

He it was who brought the morning. 

He it was whose silver arrows 
Chased the dark o’er hill and valley ; 

He it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crimson.” 

So they drifted on, each recalling some favorite 
word picture from the poet’s lore. 

They saw much of Doctor Mills. Helen would 
not have it otherwise. Not even Rex, whose life 
was given to bringing the sinning and the lonely into 
the blessedness of Christ’s companionship, yearned 


A Delightful Summer 115 

over this misspent life, this hopeless manhood, as did 
Helen. 

Philip vaguely felt that in the girl’s past was an 
experience which had given her a strange kinship 
with pain. She was sunny and merry, yet she had 
a power of sympathy surpassing that possessed by 
her brother. In the ministry of Rex, Helen was 
his right hand, it was to her that the children and 
the world-wearied women came for that wine of 
life, sympathy. 

She would not allow Doctor Mills to feel himself 
an outsider. He was one of them ; the cottage was 
his home. So it came about that he was often there 
for the midday lunch or for the simple evening din- 
ner. Helen drew him on to relate many stories of 
his practice, for the years he had spent in that lake- 
side village had made him acquainted with a host 
of life’s tragedies and comedies. 

Helen Abbot roused in the man’s nature, stupefied 
as it was by years of indulgence in strong drink, a 
passionate desire for the things he had cast from 
him. He regretted that he had turned his back upon 
the beauty and the worth of life. 

“It’s too late to think about such things now,” he 
murmured, one moonlight evening when he was on 
his way from the cottage to the village. He stopped 
and stood, looking out over the sea of molten 
silver which stretched far away into the distance. 
“Too late! I’ve ruined my body and lost my soul, 
all because of one woman’s falseness. Now I’m go- 
ing to make a fight for the sake of this other 


ii6 Entering Into His Own 

woman — this Saint Helen. I am not going to be 
foolish enough to attempt to give up drinking for 
good, but, with all the strength at my command. I’ll 
try to keep sober while she is at the cottage. When 
she is gone, then — ” and he broke off and hurried 
on toward his office. 

The summer passed swiftly. Rex was looking 
well. They must be back at the parsonage by the 
middle of September, for at that time both Philip 
and Rex must commence work. It was necessary 
for the young minister to visit his former home on 
a matter of business. He asked Philip to accompany 
him. 

“We can go from here to Chicago by steamer. 
Then it is but a little way up to Evanston. I want 
you to see the place where some day you shall carry 
on your studies.” 

Philip consented gladly. It chanced that a school 
friend of Helen’s who was at Harbor Point had in- 
vited her there for a week. So Rex and Philip were 
free to go to Evanston. They took the steamer for 
Chicago. On their return they were to go at once 
to the woodland parsonage. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE SECOND WINTER AT THE PARSONAGE. 

P HILIP’S visit to Evanston was a perfect end- 
ing to what had been the happiest summer of 
his life. The fall session of the college had 
not commenced, but the long residence of Rex in 
the town enabled him to give his friend a glimpse 
of the inner life of that great educational institution. 

The business which had brought Rex to Evanston 
was soon settled. Then the young men went over 
the campus and the college buildings. A visit to the 
professional-school buildings, which are located in 
Chicago, interested Philip far less than did Evans- 
ton. It was there that he confidently expected one 
day to win scholastic triumphs. 

One thing that delighted him was the university’s 
situation. The college campus borders on Lake 
Michigan, and that seemed to link his dreams of the 
future with the past. Of all the buildings. Uni- 
versity Hall and the Fayerweather Hall of Science 
charmed him most. There he feasted his eyes upon 
the treasures of the museums and the zoological and 
botanical laboratories. The facilities for instruc- 
tion in chemistry and physics were revelations to 
him. Rex laughed at his wonder and delight. 


ii8 Entering Into His Own 

“You are pale, old fellow. Don't let these tri- 
umphs of mechanical skill win you from your alle- 
giance to nature." 

“There is no fear of that. These are indeed what 
you call them, triumphs of mechanical skill. I hold 
with that apostle of nature and culture, Hamilton 
W. Mabie, when he says, ‘Mechanism is marvelous, 
but growth is miraculous.' " 

“Good! Farther on, the same writer says some- 
thing about the divine element in growth being 
God’s way of working in the world. But come, 
let us go over to the new library building. It has 
recently been completed. Ah, there are the treas- 
ures of the university! The Greenleaf Library, 
named for its noble giver, contains many rare vol- 
umes. It must be seen to be appreciated." 

The next afternoon the two young men were 
passing along before Heck Hall when they met a 
tall, fine-looking man who stopped, an exclamation 
of surprise breaking from his lips. 

“Doctor Fields!" Rex cried. “I did not know 
you were back." 

“Just came at noon. And you? Is it possible 
that you have come to your senses ? Are you back 
here to finish your course?" 

“No, I am here on a matter of business. To- 
morrow I return to my field of labor. Fields, this 
is my young friend, Philip Graham. Philip, Doctor 
Jerome Fields, Professor of Zoology in the College 
of Liberal Arts." 

“Sounds imposing as it rolls from our friend’s 


Second Winter at the Parsonage 119 

tongue, does it not?’' the doctor asked jocularly, as 
he shook Philip’s hand. ‘‘Notwithstanding Abbot’s 
meekness he is fond of the pomp and vanities of the 
world. What’s that? Graham looking forward to 
coming here some day ? I am glad of that. I know 
of no better ambition for a young man.” 

They talked of the university for a few minutes. 
Then Doctor Fields asked in a constrained manner : 

“Is Miss Abbot well? She remains with you?” 

To Philip’s surprise Rex seemed to share the 
questioner’s embarrassment. 

“Helen is well, thank you. Yes, she will share 
my wilderness home another year. She is a great 
aid to me in my work.” 

“I can readily understand that,” was the doctor’s 
formal reply. Then he began again to talk of the 
school. 

Philip was pleased with his new acquaintance. 
Doctor Fields was a fine specimen of manhood. He 
had steady, penetrating blue eyes, and a well- 
trimmed blonde beard covered the lower part of his 
face. The carriage of his head denoted pride. 

They reached the outskirts of the campus, and 
Doctor Fields paused. 

“I must leave you here. When do you go? To- 
morrow ! Why, Abbot, I must see you again. You 
and Graham must dine with me at my hotel this 
evening. No, Graham, I will not excuse you. Re- 
member promptly at seven.” 

They promised. There was no other way, for 
Doctor Fields would take no denial. The two 


120 Entering Into His Own 

young men walked on. It was some time before 
Rex spoke. 

‘‘Fields is one of the most fascinating persons I 
ever met. I am not surprised that Helen learned to 
love him.’' 

“Helen! What do you mean?” 

“Did I never tell you? During my attendance 
upon the university we came to know Fields well. 
He was a favorite with our mother. None of us 
knew of his skepticism until it was too late. You 
see it is kept quiet on account of his being in the 
school. Helen could not marry a man who denies 
the existence of God and sees nothing in the life 
beyond save a dreamless sleep. It was hard for 
Helen; just how hard I fear I do not know.” 

“And she loves him still ?” Philip asked in a voice 
that was not quite steady. Knowing the depths 
and sincerity of Helen Abbot’s nature, he realized 
something of what this had been to her. 

Rex smiled, although there were lines of pain 
round his lips. “Helen is not one to forget. I 
fear she will go on loving Jerome Fields all through 
life. God grant that some day he may see aright!” 

“Need it have parted them? No one is worthy 
of Helen, yet this man struck me as one who would 
have been a real companion to her in many ways.” 

A sigh parted the lips of Rex. “You felt the 
fascination of his personality. I fear it has lured 
many a youth into the barren fields of unbelief. 
Yes, Philip. It must part them. Helen cannot 
marry a man who denies God.” 


Second Winter at the Parsonage 121 

Silence again fell between them. Philip mused 
upon what he had heard. To him it seemed as if 
Helen had made an unnecessary sacrifice. 

Philip greatly enjoyed that dinner hour. Doctor 
Fields proved an entertaining talker. His stories 
of college life and of his student days abroad de- 
lighted the youth. Doctor Fields was, in his turn, 
attracted by Philip's mobile face and far-seeing eyes. 

“I shall look for you here next year,” were his 
parting words. “Do not disappoint me.” 

The following day the two young men started on 
their return trip. As they stood on the deck of the 
steamer, watching the city fade from sight, Philip 
asked : 

“Do you not regret all you are leaving there? 
As for me, while I appreciate the advantages of the 
city, my home is yonder. But you, Rex, you are 
the city's child.” 

“Regret it? Not for an instant. Had I a thou- 
sand lives I would give them all for the privilege 
of telling the story of Christ's death and resurrec- 
tion.” 

Night was descending, and the face of Rex 
gleamed white and thin in the dim light. Philip 
was turning away when a sudden fear smote him. 
Rex had but one life; was he not giving that? 
What would the coming winter bring him ? 

Soon the little family were installed in the par- 
sonage. Work awaited each one. 

Rex threw himself at once into his labor. Things 
had not gone well during his absence. More than 


122 Entering Into His Own 

one of his converts of the winter before had re- 
nounced their faith and gone back to their olden 
pursuits. Then the opening of the mill and the in- 
creased number of lumbermen brought a renewal 
of the carousals of the previous winter. 

The young minister did not lose heart. For- 
getting the need of care of his own weak body, he 
recommenced his efforts to show those men and 
women the beauty of a life lost in Christ. 

Helen nobly seconded his efforts, although she 
insisted that her work must be done in her own way. 
A number of rude cabin homes had been built near 
the mill, and Helen added the women and children 
there to her charges. She was thoughtful and self- 
sacrificing, and many learned to love her devotedly. 

Philip’s work was new to him. Of the theory of 
bookkeeping he knew little, but he readily under- 
stood Mr. Green’s instructions. The youth was ob- 
serving, and he had come to know much of lumber. 
The foreman seemed to be suited with his assistant, 
while Philip liked the work far better than he had 
expected. 

“Mr. Green has changed,” Philip said one evening 
as they sat at the dinner table. “You remember, 
Rex, last winter he resented your work among his 
men and made himself generally disagreeable. Now 
he inquires with apparent interest concerning your- 
self and Helen. In fact, as my old enemy, Deacon 
Ashley, used to say, I felt to-day that Green was 
trying to lead me to invite him here to dinner.” 

“Why, that’s the very thing !” Rex laid down his 


Second Winter at the Parsonage 123 

knife and fork and looked over at Philip. “If we 
could win that man to a sense of his duty it would 
mean a great deal to my work. Shall Philip invite 
him for to-morrow night, Helen?’' 

“As you and he please.” 

Rex glanced at his sister. “That is not a very 
cordial assent. Don’t you want Mr. Green to 
come ?” 

Helen’s dark eyes sought her plate. “I do not 
like the man. To me his new friendliness is more 
disagreeable than was his resentment. Ask him if 
you like, but do not expect too much from his 
changed mood.” 

Mr. Green promptly accepted the invitation. He 
even took time to go to the house where he boarded 
and make what he evidently considered a toilet 
worthy of the occasion. His broad face was newly- 
shaven, and the few dark locks surmounting his bald 
head were well oiled. He wore a yellow and purple 
tie, while his red-bordered handkerchief was redo- 
lent with perfume. 

He was embarrassed. When the party sat down 
at the daintly-spread table, the guest’s face grew 
still redder. He stared admiringly at Helen, who 
sat at the head of the table arrayed in a house dress 
of soft cardinal flannel. 

“I tell you what, Miss Abbot, this here hain’t like 
the coffee we git over to the boarding-house,” and 
he handed her his cup. “I’ll thank you for a little 
more. It’s extra good, ’cause you made it.” 

He smirked and tried to meet her glance. Helen 


124 Entering Into His Own 

kept her eyes fixed upon the cup she was refilling. 
The meal finished, the men passed into the sitting- 
room. Helen lingered, busying herself about put- 
ting away the food and carrying the dishes to the 
kitchen, where they were left until morning brought 
the woman who helped for a time each day. 

Mr. Green did not hasten his going. At last 
Helen joined the men. The lumberman said: 

“I’ve ben a waiting to hear you play. Miss 
Abbot.” 

She sat down at the piano. “What would you 
like to hear?” 

“Oh, I hain’t very particular. Most anything 
that has go in it, like a good dancing tune.” 

Helen played for some time. The music soothed 
and quieted her. Soon after she stopped Mr. Green 
rose. 

“Well, I must be going. Now I’ve ben here once. 
Miss Abbot, I mean to be real neighborly. I say. 
Dominie, if you do have that there Christmas tree. 
I’ve a five-dollar bill to help it on.” 

Rex thanked Mr. Green and saw him to the door. 
On his return to the sitting-room the minister said : 

“I am delighted at the change in Green. He 
promised me he would come to church Sunday.” 

“Did he ask if Helen would be present?” Philip 
inquired mischievously. 

“Helen? Why, no. It struck me, dear,” look- 
ing over fondly at his sister, “that it was presump- 
tuous for him to speak to you as he did about the 
coffee.” 


Second Winter at the Parsonage 125 

Helen sat down at the piano. “Don’t let us talk 
about him. Come, Philip, we will sing a ‘Gloria’ to 
take the bad taste out of our mouths.” 

Rex began to cough. He declared he was per- 
fectly well. 

“Why don’t you coddle Philip, Helen?” he asked. 
“There, dear! Don’t look so grave. I appreciate 
all your thoughtfulness, but there is no reason for 
you to be uneasy.” 

All entered heartily into the preparations for the 
Christmas tree at the church. Helen wrote Doctor 
Mills, asking him to spend the day with them. After 
deliberating over the matter for some time, the doc- 
tor sent an acceptance. To Philip he wrote : 

“Why, lad, it’s the first time Pve been invited 
anywhere for years. Pve bought me a new suit, 
for I mean that you shall not be ashamed of me.” 

The doctor reached the parsonage at noon the 
day before Christmas. That evening was given to 
the tree. 

It was prettily trimmed and lighted. Many of the 
children had never before seen a Christmas tree, and 
their delight was shared by their parents. Some 
Indian children came from a distance. Helen had 
planned so there was a sack of candy and a pretty 
picture for each of them. 

One gift that Helen received greatly annoyed her. 
It was a huge photograph album covered with red 
plush. The card attached bore the inscription, “A 
Merry Christmas to Helen Abbot from an affec- 
tionate friend,” and the front page held Tom Green’s 
photograph. 


126 Entering Into His Own 

‘‘What will you do with it, Helen?” Philip asked, 
as the trio and their giiest sat round the fire after 
reaching the parsonage. “It’s too imposing for this 
tiny house.” 

“I wish I dared send it back to him,” and the 
girl’s cheeks burned. 

“Now, Helen, that would be unwise,” Rex cried 
teasingly. “It shall be an heirloom in the Abbot 
family along with the silver tankard and grand- 
mother’s diamond ring.” 

There was an exchange of simple gifts before 
they parted for the night. Helen was much pleased 
with the pair of buckskin moccasins which Doctor 
Mills gave her. They were embroidered with porcu- 
pine quills and were made by the Indians of that 
locality. 

The next day passed pleasantly. There was a 
Christmas dinner at the parsonage, and the after- 
noon was devoted to music and conversation. 

Doctor Mills returned to Harbor Springs the fol- 
lowing morning. He found an opportunity to say 
to Philip: 

“I don’t like that cough of your friend’s. Take 
care of him ; he will not take care of himself. If he 
talks of evening meetings lock him up, if there is no 
other way to make him behave himself.” 

The days passed by, each one filled with work. 
Philip had not laid aside his studious habits. One 
hour every evening was given to books that would 
prepare him for the scientific course at the North- 
western University. No matter what the day held 


Second Winter at the Parsonage 127 

there was a friendly, merry chat round the open fire 
before the three separated for the night. 

Notwithstanding all that Helen and Philip could 
say, Rex commenced a series of evening meetings 
the first of March. Soon the little church was 
crowded. Every night people gathered from far 
and near to listen to Rex Abbot’s fervent, eloquent 
words. 

A new light shone in the pastor’s eyes. He laid 
aside every thought save one — the winning of souls. 
His love of books and culture, his aspirations, the 
rose-tinted future — all those things were forgotten 
in his desire to lead men to Christ. 

He won. Many knelt at that altar and rose, their 
hearts filled with a sense of God’s pardoning grace. 
Yet through all those days of effort and stress there 
was one goal Rex had set for himself that he did not 
reach. Philip remained unmoved. 

“I don’t like the excitement and noise; it is not my 
way,” was one of his excuses. 

‘‘Neither do I like it, but it is the way these per- 
sons must be reached,” was the reply of Rex. “Why 
should you care for your way ? What does it matter 
how or when he comes? Christ is all.” 

Philip frowned. “I do not see things as you do, 
Rex. Please do not talk to me about it.” 

Rex could do naught but comply with the request. 
He continued to pray for Philip’s conversion. 

At last the closing night of the meetings came. 
All the friends of the young minister were glad, for 
his wan, worn face frightened them. 


128 Entering Into His Own 

He chose the text, ‘^Greater love has no man than 
this.’’ 

Love. The law of life. The highest and holiest 
attribute of the human heart. The divine element. 
God’s attitude toward the human race. Nay, God 
himself, for he is love. 

It was a masterful discourse. Tears coursed 
down many cheeks. Words spoken in that hour 
would long be remembered and would bear fruit in 
years to come. 

Rex had nearly finished when he reeled slightly. 
Helen’s eyes were on his face. She sprang up, but 
before she could reach her brother’s side he had 
fallen to the ground, a tiny stream of blood flowing 
from his mouth. 

Rex Abbot’s friends carried him home. The 
nearest doctor was summoned, and the flow of blood 
checked. Philip dispatched a messenger for Doctor 
Mills. 

“He will not reach here until morning,” Philip 
said to Helen. “You go to bed, and I will watch 
with Rex. Two of the boys from the mill insist 
upon staying, but they can lie down on my bed.” 

“I cannot sleep,” Helen said in the same dull, 
slow tone in which she had spoken ever since her 
brother’s fall. “Neither can I be alone. Sit down 
here by me, Philip; your presence will make me 
strong.” 

They sat down before the open fire. There was 
no need of words between the two watchers. With 
eyes fixed upon the dancing flames they waited. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A TEST 

T ime went by slowly. Occasionally one or the 
other of the watchers rose and moved to the 
open door of the room where Rex lay. He 
was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion. 

Now and then Philip raised his head and glanced 
at the girl who sat opposite him. The usual pink 
flush had faded from her cheeks, and the hands that 
lay in her lap were tightly clenched. Of what was 
she thinking? 

As for Philip himself his thoughts were for a time 
chaotic. When Rex fell Philip had thought him 
dying, and the youth was still dazed. Even now, 
that the immediate danger was past, it was hard 
for him to comprehend that the hemorrhage from 
which Rex had suffered might mean death. 

Death! Philip shivered as if smitten by a cold 
wind. To the minister death was but the doorway 
giving entrance to eternal life. To Philip — ah, what 
did Rex Abbot’s death mean to him? 

Philip loved his friend with all the ardor of a 
passionate nature long deprived of congenial com- 
panionship. To the younger of the two there would 
never be another friendship just like this one. Helen 


130 Entering Into His Own 

and Rex had led him into a better way of living. 
They had fired his aspirations and made culture pos- 
sible for him. They had shared with him their 
home. The love of Rex was much; how could he 
live without it? 

Next the watcher recalled the ambitions of Rex. 
The young minister had hoped to widen his field of 
usefulness, to make his life a far-reaching influence 
for good. And this was to be the end. 

Why was it? Had the zeal of Rex in his chosen 
work shortened the life that might have been pro- 
longed by care? Or had God given him but a brief 
span of time and hence the young man’s great desire 
to improve it? 

Philip had once said he felt no need of the com- 
panionship of Christ. He was then passing through 
deep waters, and because of the lack of God’s com- 
forting grace something bitter and defiant sprang up 
in his heart. 

^T will not give up hope; Rex shall not die,” and 
he threw back his head with the old gesture. “Sum- 
mer will soon be here, and he will grow well and 
strong. Pie shall never pass another winter in this 
work.” 

Just then he heard the sound of bells. A sleigh 
paused before the gate. Philip sprang up. 

“It must be Doctor Mills. He did not wait for 
morning.” 

He hurried out into the dim starlight. Morning 
was not far distant ; already there was a faint light 
in the eastern sky. 


A Test 


131 

Philip greeted his old friend warmly. Taking the 
horse to the barn of the nearest neighbor, he left 
Doctor Mills to enter the house alone. 

Helen met him at the door. She drew him into 
the little kitchen, clinging to his hand. 

“Help me, Doctor Mills! I am so weak, so alone! 
I trust God, but I — I want human help and com- 
fort.” 

The face of the physician was ashen as he held 
her hands in a firm clasp. “Poor girl ! I would give 
my worthless life to help you. You know what I 
am. Why do you ask me for help?” 

“Why ? Because I know you have suffered. Doc- 
tor Mills, I have always felt that you understood.” 

He bowed his head and kissed her hand. “God 
bless you, Helen Abbot! I do understand. I let 
the pain that wrung my heart ruin my life ; you are 
one who will suffer and grow strong.” 

“But not alone, not in my own strength,” she said 
in a low, tremulous vioce. “ ‘Though he slay me, 
yet will I trust him.’ O Doctor Mills, if you only 
had him for your friend !” 

She waited for no reply, but led him to Rex, who 
had just wakened. The physician examined his pa- 
tient closely but would not allow him to talk. 

Doctor Mills’ report was more favorable than 
Helen had dared hope it would be. While admitting 
frankly that there was danger, the doctor talked 
hopefully of what entire rest and care would do for 
Rex. 

“For two months he must stay in the house. 


132 Entering Into His Own 

avoiding excitement or- worry. When June comes 
the out-door air will do more for him than I can. 
No, Miss Helen, I would not advise change of cli- 
mate, not now. This climate cannot be improved 
upon. Next winter, did you say ? Well, we will see 
what next winter brings.” 

Doctor Mills was obliged to return to Harbor 
Springs the same day. He promised to visit Rex 
again in a short time. 

The weeks that followed proved that the work of 
Rex Abbot had been well done. His parishioners 
rallied round him, eager to do something to prove 
their loyalty to, and their love for, the one who had 
so freely spent his strength for them. Every deli- 
cacy procurable in that country was lavished upon 
Rex. There were many offers of help, not only in 
caring for the invalid but also in doing the work of 
the house. 

All understood that Rex cared far more for his 
ministerial work than for himself. His friends tried, 
as they expressed it, “to keep things going.” The 
prayer-meeting and Sabbath school were well at- 
tended. On Sunday mornings they gathered in the 
little church, and a song service took the place of 
the usual sermon. 

Philip was surprised at the submission of Rex. 
There was no repining because of the interruption 
to his work. The invalid said little concerning his 
future. His face was always bright and serene. 

“If it is God’s will that I am to work a little 
longer I shall be very glad,” he said, on the first 


A T est 


133 

morning when he was allowed to sit up. other- 
wise all is well ; I am contented.” 

Tom Green was ready with offers of assistance. 
His marked kindness to the Abbots had continued, 
but Helen treated him with cold politeness. Once 
he ventured to address her as *‘Helen.” Even his 
self-satisfied complacency felt her grave displeas- 
ure, and the offence was not repeated. 

He visited Rex. Helen took refuge in her own 
room when he came. At last Green approached 
Philip on the subject. 

“I’ve ben over to see the parson,” he announced, 
lounging into the roughly furnished office where 
Philip sat at work upon the books. “I never got a 
glimpse of Helen. The woman who works there 
come to the door. When I asked the Dominie point 
blank where his sister was he said she was in her 
room, but he didn’t call her. See here, Phil. You 
board there and know all ’bout their affairs. What 
makes Helen treat me so?” 

Philip was filled with indignation as he looked at 
the coarse, loud-voiced man who stood before him. 
He waited a moment, then spoke in his usual tone. 

“Miss Abbot is busy, and she knows you come to 
see her brother.” 

“Now see here, Phil Graham. She knows better 
than that, and so do you. Everybody knows I’m 
trying to court that girl. She’s — well, she’s an 
angel, but sometimes she acts as if I was the dirt 
under her feet. I’ll cure her of them notions once 
we’re married.” 


134 Entering Into His Own 

Philip’s self-restraint vanished. ‘‘Married ! Surely 
you do not dream that Helen Abbot would marry 
you !” 

Green’s cheeks grew purple. “Why not? They’re 
as poor as church mice. Why shouldn’t Helen Ab- 
bot marry me and be glad of the chance ?” 

Philip met the other’s angry gaze squarely. 
“Why? Because Helen Abbot is a woman in a 
thousand. The man she marries may be poor, but 
he must be refined, cultured, a gentleman, and a 
Christian.” 

The lumberman struck his hand on the desk, one 
oath after another coming from his lips. 

“She hain’t any better than I am. I’ll show her, 
and I’ll show you, you young upstart ! I’ll — ” 

He stopped, choking with rage. Philip waited 
for him to proceed. The youth expected his own 
discharge. Green turned on his heel and walked out 
of the office without another word. 

Tom Green was not the owner of the business he 
was carrying on. The timber had been bought by 
a Chicago firm, and Green was employed by them 
as overseer. At that time there was a great quan- 
tity of lumber ready for shipment, and some of it 
was valuable. 

Philip had always distrusted Green, although he 
had never detected the overseer in any dishonest 
transaction. Green continued to treat Philip well. 
The discussion of Helen Abbot made no difference. 

May came. Snow still lingered in sheltered spots, 
but the air began to be alive with the quickening in- 


A Test 


135 

fluence of spring. One afternoon Green entered the 
office, a look of determination on his face. 

“Put up that book, Phil. I want to talk to you.’’ 

Philip pushed aside the ledger and turned his chair 
so he faced his employer. Green moved uneasily in 
his seat as he said : 

“That birch is ready to ship. There’s a lot of it, 
and it’s prime. It’ll bring a pretty sum.” 

“Yes. It was that lumber you told me to enter 
on a separate book. That and one lot of the hem- 
lock.” 

“That’s what I’m gitting at. Phil, we’ll ship that 
on our own account. If it never goes on the com- 
pany’s books, they’ll never know a thing ’bout it. 
I’ll tend to it all, and all you’ll need to do is to put 
a quarter of the net profits of the sale in your pocket. 
See?” 

Philip did see. What had before been unexplain- 
able to him was made apparent in that moment. 
Green intended to rob the company of this valuable 
lumber. It could not be done without Philip’s 
knowledge, as all timber sawed was reported to him, 
and his entry of it must agree with the shipping 
bill. 

Sudden anger possessed Philip. Did Green think 
he was a thief? He waited to get control of his 
voice, and the foreman, misunderstanding his si- 
lence, continued speaking. 

“Of course it hain’t stealing. Trees are just trees, 
and they belong to folks like air and water. I’m a 
friend of yourn, Phil, and I’m doing this to help 


136 Entering Into His Own 

you earn money for your education. Now you see 
it would take — ” 

“Stop!” Philip’s eyes blazed like coals, and his 
breath came hard and fast. “Pm not a thief; I 
will not share your plunder. What is more, if you 
try to carry out this bold scheme I will denounce you 
to the company.” 

“You will, will you?” the foreman cried. He 
had risen and advanced a step toward Philip. “You 
better try it,” and again the ready oaths rang out. 
“This is the last day’s work you will ever do here, 
remember that.” 

Philip also rose. “Very well. We might as well 
understand each other, Mr. Green. If the birch 
and hemlock are not shipped with the other lumber, 
I shall report this conversation to the company.” 

“You fool! I’ve a good mind to kill you where 
you stand. What would the company care for what 
you said?” 

Philip had himself well in hand. Despondency 
and distrust of himself might come as the result of 
the interview, but he knew that in the hour of need 
his courage would not fail him. 

“What they care is not my business,” was his 
quiet reply. “All that concerns me is my own duty 
in the case ; I will report the matter, and they can do 
as they think best. I mean this. Green. It will be 
easy for me to learn whether this lumber is shipped 
with the rest.” 

The foreman continued to bluster, swear, and 
threaten. At last Philip took his hat. 


A Test 


137 


I to consider myself discharged?’' 

‘‘Yes, you are. If you don’t git out of here, I’ll 
kick you out.” 

“Do you want me to bring the books up until to- 
night ?” 

“Think I can’t git along without you, do you? 
Well, I’ll show you,” and he continued to utter such 
a stream of abuse and profanity that Philip was glad 
to leave the office. 

Instead of starting in the direction of the par- 
sonage he struck off across the stump-strewn waste 
back of the mill. His nerves were tingling with ex- 
citement. Nothing would do for him but a long 
and rapid walk under the open sky. 

In a short time he reached the unbroken forest. 
Still he strode on. He was not thinking; he was 
conscious only of a desire to act. 

At last he threw himself down on a sloping hill- 
side that looked to the westward. Through the 
thickly-growing pines and the bare-limbed deciduous 
trees he could see the red glow of the sunset. He 
watched it fade to a dull rose-gray. 

Philip had hoped to keep his position with Green 
until the beginning of the college year. The tense- 
ness of his nerves began to relax, and despondency 
took possession of him. 

“Again I have failed,” he muttered. “Will it be 
the same in college and in all my future life? My 
mother thought there was a place in the great world 
for me, yet every time I seek to find it I fail. Per- 
haps it is because my plans are too indefinite. Here 


138 Entering Into His Own 

I am, dreaming of college, but with no settled pur- 
pose. I do not know what I want to fit myself for. 
No wonder I fail. Philip Graham, what are you 
going to make of yourself ?” 

He sprang up and started homeward. A walk of 
several miles lay before him, but he was too strong 
and vigorous to care for that. All through that 
lonely walk he fought the spirit of dejection and 
distrust of himself. 

When he came in sight of the parsonage, lights 
were gleaming from the windows. Helen heard his 
step and came forward to greet him. 

“I am so glad you have come, Philip! Rex was 
worried about your absence, but I managed to re- 
assure him by saying you were doubtless detained 
at the office, and he went to bed. What is it, 
Philip?” 

He sank into a chair, suddenly aware of his weari- 
ness. “I have been wandering round the woods for 
hours, walking miles and tiring myself out. It’s the 
old story, Helen. Once more I have failed. Green 
discharged me this afternoon, discharged me because 
I would not join him in a scheme to rob the com- 
pany.” 

Helen laid one hand upon his arm. ‘‘Failed, did 
you say? I am proud of such a failure. Think, 
Philip, if you had come home to us — Rex and me 
— after accepting such a proposition. Now not an- 
other word. Go to your room and put on your slip- 
pers. After you have had dinner you shall tell me 
all about it.” 


A T est 


139 

Five minutes later she took her place opposite 
him at the table. “I ate with Rex, but I will read 
the paper to you while you eat.’’ 

Philip had thought that he could not taste food, 
but he found himself relishing the bowl of hot soup 
Helen had ready at his plate. After that he ate 
heartily of the other viands, almost forgetting his 
trouble and lingering over the coffee and simple pud- 
ding that formed the dessert. 

Wehn they adjourned to the sitting-room Helen 
motioned him to lie down on the couch. 

‘‘You are tired, Philip, and I cannot have my 
other brother ill. Now tell me all about it.” 

She sat down in a low chair before the fireplace 
where a bright fire was burning. Philip began his 
story, and she let him finish without a word. 

“I do not see how you could have done otherwise 
than as you did,” was her comment. “Now, Philip, 
listen while your older sister lectures you a little. 
Tests and trials come in every life; to meet them 
manfully strengthens one. I regret your losing 
your situation, regret it for our sake as well as for 
yours, for my heart fails me when I think of Rex 
and myself living without you. We will not worry 
over that. Philip, there will a way open before you.” 

He smiled over at her. “You have given me fresh 
courage, Helen. It is weak for me to distrust my- 
self, but my future is so uncertain.” 

“Trust, Philip. When you are ready for the way 
it will open. You have not failed. These tem- 
porary employments are steps that lead you on the 


140 Entering Into His Own 

way to your rightful inheritance — a noble and use- 
ful future. Life will teach you patience ; no worthy 
victory is easily won. Hard work lies before you. 
Do you not remember how the stone, rejected by the 
builders, but through no fault of the stone, became 
the head of the corner?’' 

'‘I remember, but I do not understand your mean- 
mg. 

“ ‘This was the Lord’s doing.’ Philip, there is a 
glorious future before you. In God’s own good time 
you will enter into it, providing you will let him lead 
you. It may be his will that it shall be ‘the head of 
the corner.’ But now you are rested enough to take 
your books.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


CROSSING THE BAR. 

R ex heard the story of Philip's discharge from 
Green's employment with the same spirit 
Helen had shown. 

'T am glad you reproved him. Poor Green! 
Without Christ and without honor! Take a few 
days' vacation, Philip, and then we will find a way 
or make one." 

Before the end of the week a task was put into 
Philip's hands. One night he was roused from 
slumber by an unusual noise. He sprang up, threw 
on a dressing gown and passed into the dining-room. 
The sound came again, from the room of Rex. A 
small lamp had been left burning on the table. Phil- 
ip took it in his hand and entered the room of his 
friend, only to start back with a cry of alarm. The 
head of Rex was moving to and fro, while from his 
lips bright red blood welled. 

Doctor Mills had told them what to do. Not even 
waiting to call Helen, Philip hastened to obey the 
doctor's instructions. Then he summoned the 
frightened girl and, when he could leave her, went 
for the nearest neighbor. 

They watched beside Rex until a golden and 


142 Entering Into His Own 

crimson radiance flushed the east. Then Philip 
started for Harbor Springs. 

He brought Doctor Mills back with him. Philip 
was hopeful; he would not allow himself to think 
that his dearly-loved friend was nearing the shadowy 
shores of the great beyond. 

Doctor Mills stayed all night. One of the neigh- 
bors was to drive him back to the village. When he 
was ready to start the physician motioned Philip to 
follow him out into the yard. 

‘Xad, I want a word with you. I can^t say it to 
that saint, his sister. She knows, but she can’t talk 
about it.” 

“What do you mean?” Philip asked, a sickening 
fear at his heart. 

The doctor put one of his unsteady hands upon 
Philip’s arm. “I wish I could spare you, lad, but 
you must be brave. Rex Abbot will not see the snow 
come again.” 

Philip reeled back. Then he covered his face with 
his hands, and for a few minutes there was no sound 
save a robin’s cheery call that sounded from the pine 
tree that grew by the gate. 

“You must be brave, for their sake,” Doctor Mills 
said at last. “Do not talk of finding work; it has 
come to you. Helen cannot care for her brother 
alone. Yours is a rare privilege, Phil — to give your 
friend a few months from your vigorous youth.” 

“I would give him my heart’s blood.” Philip lift- 
ed a white, despairing face. “Doctor Mills, Rex 
must not die!” 


Crossing the Bar 143 

‘'Ah, lad, don’t say that! There is a bar which 
our boasted science cannot pass. While neither you 
nor I give God what the Abbots do, we know he is. 
Life and death are in his hands.” 

Philip turned away with a despairing gesture. At 
the doctor’s next words he was all attention. 

“Rex will rally for a time. Then we will move 
him to your home. There I can see him every day, 
and we will have a doctor over from Petoskey. 
Now I must go. Phil, dear boy, I wish I could help 
you.” 

The young man pressed the other’s hand. “You 
have always helped me. I wonder if you know how 
truly I appreciate all you have done for me. May 
the day come when I can repay you. Even in this 
sorrow it is to you I turn for help.” 

It was a moment before Doctor Mills replied. In 
the branches of the pine at the gate the wind sang 
a plaintive melody. Was the desolate and homeless 
man thinking of the time when the orphan he had 
befriended might repay him ? Nay, for he said : 

“I will not fail you, lad. Which means that I 
must fight my attending devil with redoubled zeal. 
Well, I will do it.” 

The recovery of Rex was slow. For many days 
he lay wan and speechless. Helen and Philip vied 
with each other in anticipating his wants. 

In those days there came to Philip a perception 
of what Christ’s presence in the heart was. It was 
not so much in the case of Rex, for all knew that he 
had long looked upon his life as but a brief span. 


144 Entering Into His Own 

It was Helen in whose nature Philip saw the 
power of faith. Helen Abbot loved her brother ; he 
was all there was left her of a family circle. She 
had hoped for the prolonging of the life so dear to 
her, but after the second hemorrhage she saw what 
was coming. 

At first she rebelled a little. There was the pos- 
sionate clinging of the human nature to its human 
loves. Later there was a new light in Helen’s eyes, 
a new grace upon her face. Grief was there, the 
grief that cannot be banished when a dear one slips 
away, leaving us to go on alone. There was also a 
trust, a perfect and loving surrender that Philip saw 
but could not understand. 

June came. The earth had put on her livery of 
green, and the forest was starred with wild flowers. 
Rex was sitting up one afternoon when Helen told 
him Doctor Mills thought he was well enough to be 
moved to the cottage. 

Rex Abbot listened in silence. Drops of perspira- 
tion stood upon his forehead, and he turned away his 
face. It was not death from which he was shrink- 
ing; he had so hoped to win a few more souls for 
Christ. 

Helen laid her hand upon his. The young man’s 
thin fingers closed over those of his sister as he said : 

‘Tt is very kind in Philip. You may write my 
resignation at once, Helen. Then another minister 
can be sent here. The work must go on, although 
the workers drop by the way.” 

She passed behind his chair and lifted his head 


Crossing the Bar 145 

in her arms. “Dearest brother! What can I say 
to comfort you?” 

Her evident distress gave him back his accus- 
tomed serenity, and he smiled up in her face. 

“It is only because I have done so little, Helen. 
But God’s will be done ! You must not grieve. Ah, 
never man had a sister like you 1” 

There were many sad hearts among Rex Abbot’s 
parishioners. They saw the nearness of the shadows. 
To some of them came a realization of what the 
young minister’s work had really been. 

“This here world won’t never again be quite so 
dark a place ’cause of you, Mr. Abbot,” a poor, ig- 
norant woman, one burdened with many cares, said 
when she came to tell him good-by. “If I ever git 
to heaven it will be ’cause you showed me the way. 
I’d never knowed the Christ if I hadn’t seen him in 
you.” 

There were many other protestations of love and 
loyalty. Some knelt at the side of Rex and promised 
to be faithful until death. Strong, unrighteous men 
who had withstood the youthful pastor’s pleading 
went out from his presence with bated breath and a 
knowledge that the dying man was a messenger of 
the true God. 

The middle of June saw them settled at Philip’s 
old home. The parsonage was given up. Part of 
the furniture was carried to the cottage, the rest be- 
ing stored in the village. 

Nature had not lost her charm for Philip. Sad- 
dened by the rapid failure of his friend, the youth. 


146 Entering Into His Own 

as in his lonely boyhood, found comfort in the woods 
and on the water. 

Philip rose early on the morning after their first 
night at the cottage. Leaving the house noiselessly, 
he went down to where his sailboat was anchored. 
He entered the boat and started to cross the bay. 
When a little way out he put the boat about and sat 
looking at the fast-receding shore. 

“Home!” he murmured. “Last year we were so 
happy here. Now I am soon to go away from this 
spot, out into the untried world. I will be lonely, 
but I will wrest from the coming years the success 
that is to be mine.” 

With the old defiant toss of his head he turned his 
face to the wide expanse of water and sent his boat 
swiftly along. It was very still. There was no 
sound save the soft lap of the waves. Fleecy clouds 
covered the sky. The water was of a soft blue, not 
still but quivering and ambient in the subdued sun- 
light. Afar off could be seen a faint mist, and be- 
neath it the water was a smooth sheet of dull silver. 

Philip drew a long breath. “Ah, this is life!” 

For a time the change seemed to benefit Rex. He 
sat on the veranda and, after a few days, ventured 
down to the water’s edge, leaning on Philip’s arm. 
The best doctor from the neighboring city of Petos- 
key was called to see the invalid, but he could only 
echo the opinion of Doctor Mills. 

Notwithstanding the approaching shadow, the 
little household was not a gloomy one. Philip in- 
sisted that Helen should have exercise. Leaving 


Crossing the Bar 147 

him with her brother she wandered along the beach 
or climbed the bluff back of the city. Doctor Mills 
kept the invalid company while Philip took Helen 
for a row or a sail. 

The villagers were very kind. The people from 
near the country church came often. There was 
reading aloud and music. 

Ah, those weary days of waiting! Those days 
when science and love have done their all! Only 
those who have seen the slow hours drag by, know- 
ing their inability to beat back the approaching death 
angel, can fully understand what those days were to 
Helen and Philip. 

George Villiers, one of the young men who had 
roomed at the cottage two years before, was staying 
at Wequetonsing. Soon after his arrival he sought 
out Philip. 

‘‘You've grown, my boy,” he cried. “Not in 
stature so much as in other ways. I ? Oh, Pve been 
too busy following out a prescribed course of study 
and having a good time to grow.” 

Helen and Rex liked the young man. Philip in- 
vited him to come the next day for lunch. 

It proved to be a beautiful morning. Helen and 
Philip spread the table on the veranda, where a 
screen of vines shut off the gaze of passers. 

“What a charming spot!” Villiers said, sitting 
down in a hammock by the side of Rex's armchair. 
“I can understand something of Graham's love for 
it. By the way, Mr. Abbot, he is a fine fellow.” 

The thin face of Rex brightened. “It warms my 


148 Entering Into His Own 

heart to hear one praise Philip. I look for a great 
future for him. His mind is most peculiar. He 
has a curious insight into things. This comes by 
intuition rather than by study.’’ 

‘Tt is the poet’s gift,” Villiers said, with a gravity 
that was strangely at variance with his usual light- 
ness of manner. “True poetry is vital, however, 
and Graham’s danger will lie in a separation of him- 
self from his fellow men. Poetry must become the 
common expression of the common life to rise to 
its best.” 

“I believe you are right. Philip does shut him- 
self away from all but his few chosen friends. To 
them he is everything.” 

“He is. I am glad he will take a scientific course 
at college, for it will steady him. Do you know 
that he has a remarkable knowledge of the water and 
the flora of this region? He has supplemented his 
study at first hand with all the knowledge to be ob- 
tained from books. Graham has courage and 
strength of purpose; he will win.” 

Rex turned the leaves of the book in his hands. 
“The grim Carlyle is one of my favorites. To 
Philip’s strength and courage my writer adds one 
more qualification to make up success. He says, 
‘Thought, true labor of any kind, highest virtue 
itself, is it not the daughter of pain?’ And a little 
further on, Tn all things we are to be made perfect 
through sufYering.’ ” 

The eyes of George Villiers were fixed upon the 
water which lay, sparkling and shimmering, in the 


149 


Crossing the Bar 

sunlight. Before him passed a vision of his own 
care-free, aimless existence. In his heart was an 
aspiration for better things, but it was concealed 
from even his best friends. Had this wan-faced 
man been able to point out the one thing that was still 
to come to him, perfecting and making useful his 
life? Would he, as well as Philip, “become perfect 
through suffering”? 

The announcement of lunch put an end to his mus- 
ings. The table was daintily spread. In the center 
was a low glass dish filled with yellow and white 
field daisies which Philip had gathered on the bluff. 
The meal was a simple one: sandwiches, a salad, 
luscious red raspberries, wafers and tea. 

They were a long time at the table. George Vil- 
liers was the life of the little party. He narrated 
incidents of his college life and of his extensive 
travels. Helen was roused to a spirited defense of 
the Northwestern University by Villiers’ assumption 
that the colleges of the East were immeasurably su- 
perior to those of the Middle West. 

“I am not convinced,” he said, after a long argu- 
ment. “Hovrever, I’ll give your beloved Northwest- 
ern one chance. If it makes of Graham what may 
be made of such material I will admit its excel- 
lency.” 

They saw much of Villiers while he remained in 
that vicinity. Soon after his departure Rex grew 
worse. 

The dying man put his business affairs in shape. 
The little fortune that remained to the brother and 


150 Entering Into His Own 

sister was all made over to Helen. Rex advised 
her to return to Evanston and use enough of the 
money to enable her to complete her course in 
music. 

“I will do so/’ the girl promised through her 
tears. ^‘It will permit of my being near Philip dur- 
ing his first year there, and I can help him in many 
ways. After graduating I can readily secure a place 
as a music teacher.” 

Rex laid one hand upon that of his sister. “Helen, 
I must speak once of Jerome. When I last saw him 
I knew by the look in his eyes when he spoke of you 
that he had not forgotten. But for the one thing, 
I could leave you safely sheltered in his love and — ” 

With her free hand she gently closed his lips. 
“Do not talk of it. I shall go on loving Jerome 
Fields all my life, but I can never become his wife. 
To do so would be a denial of my faith.” 

That had been a hard summer for Doctor Mills. 
Knowing that Rex might need him at any time, he 
had not dared seek forgetfulness in drink. The 
temptation was often sore, but he withstood it, al- 
though he grew restless and irritable. 

A cousin of the Abbots — a middle-aged business 
man — came from Chicago to see Rex. He invited 
Helen to take her brother to his home, but Rex 
would not go. 

“I want to die here. Could I go to the home of 
our childhood it would be different. Here I am still 
in touch with the people whom God gave for a little 
time into my care. When all is over, Helen and 


Crossing the Bar 151 

Philip will carry me back to rest by the side of our 
father and mother/' 

The end came suddenly. All one day Rex gasped 
for breath. As the sun neared the western horizon 
he grew quiet and was able to talk. 

“Lift me up, Philip," he said. “I want to see 
the bay once more.” 

Philip lifted him in his strong arms. The sun 
was sinking behind the wooded curve of the coast 
west of the village. A golden radiance from the 
sky was reflected in the smooth water. Oif to the 
south a bank of dark clouds was rising. 

“A storm is coming,” Philip said. 

Rex did not seem to hear. Softly he murmured : 

** ^Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me; 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea.’ ” 

He lapsed into silence. A few minutes went by, 
and he spoke firmly. 

“Philip, my only regret is that I must leave my 
work undone. Promise me that you will carry it 
on.” 

“I? O Rex, I cannot do that! I cannot preach.” 

“I did not mean that. Philip, ere long you will 
surrender your will to that of God. I will exact no 
promise of you, dear boy, but remember I expect 
you to carry on my work by letting men see the 
Christ in you. Now lay me down.” 

He alternately slept and waked until midnight. 


152 Entering Into His Own 

Outside the soft summer rain was falling. As 
Helen leaned over her brother, with gentlest 
caresses, she heard him murmur : 

“ ‘For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place 
The flood may bear me far, 

I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crossed the bar.’ ” 

A moment later he opened his eyes. “Helen! 
Dear sister, good-by ! Lord, I come 

He did not speak again. Ten minutes went by. 
Then Helen rose from her knees, her face ashen and 
drawn. 

“Rex is safe at home.’’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 


PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. 

T he Storm passed with the night. Just as the 
sun was peering above the eastern horizon 
Philip Graham opened the cottage door and 
walked slowly down the path leading to the beach. 
His head was bowed, and the healthy color had faded 
from his face, leaving him very pale. 

Sorrow had wrought a mighty transformation in 
the light-hearted youth; for once he was deaf and 
blind to the beauties round him. The wonderful col- 
oring of the east, the burning of the rose-flush to 
amber and orange, the glint of the light upon the 
softly-moving waves and the low lullaby they chant- 
ed, the twittering of a wood thrush near — all these 
delights were unheeded. Philip stood near the great 
pine tree, his unseeing eyes fixed upon the water. 

Where? Yesterday morning Rex was with him, 
weak in body yet with his mental faculties alert. 
Even then his cold form, his earthly tenement lay 
at the house. That was not the real Rex. Where 
was the active mind, the sympathetic personality, 
the rare soul ? 

The lips of Philip quivered like those of a grieved 
child. The murmur of the waves seemed to resolve 


154 Entering Into His Own 

itself into words. They were echoes from his child- 
hood. She, the mother who had preceded Rex to 
the spirit world, had read these words to him. 

“That great xity, the holy Jerusalem,’' “having 
the glory of God,” “the throne of God and of the 
Lamb shall be in it,” “and the nations of them which 
are saved shall walk in the light of it.” 

A quick step approaching along the beach startled 
Philip. He stepped close to the tree. Perhaps the 
passer-by would not see him. The steps halted. 

“Pardon me,” a carefully-modulated voice said, 
“can you tell me if this is the residence of Philip 
Graham ?” 

Philip turned. The speaker was Doctor Fields. 

“You, Graham!” and the new-comer held out his 
hand. “I came to find the Abbots. How is Rex?” 

Pie hesitated over the last words, for Philip’s face 
was easy to read. The younger man pointed to the 
cottage, and then Fields saw the crape on the door. 

For a brief space neither spoke. When Doctor 
Fields broke the silence it was with a single word. 

“Helen?” 

Philip motioned to a rustic seat that surrounded 
the pine. “Let us sit here. Helen is lying down. 
Poor girl! She is alone in the world.” 

The speaker’s eyes chanced to rest on his com- 
panion’s hands. They were so tightly clenched that 
the nails cut into the flesh. 

“I saw Mr. Chester Abbot two days ago.” Doctor 
Fields spoke calmly. “Upon learning from him 
that Rex was dying I concluded to come up and see 


Plans for the Future 155 

if there was not something I could do. I am too 
late.'' 

“Not too late to have your presence be a comfort 
to Helen. We start for Evanston this evening. You 
will go back with us?" 

“Certainly. Now I will go to the hotel for break- 
fast." 

Philip rose. “Come to the house first. Helen will 
be up by this time. I am sorry, Doctor Fields, that 
we cannot entertain you here, but my good neigh- 
bors, the Perrines, will be glad to consider you as 
their guest." 

“Thank you, but I will go to the hotel. And, Gra- 
ham, call upon me to aid you in any way about the 
arrangements. I want to help." 

They had reached the cottage. Philip held open 
the outside door for his guest to pass within. Jerome 
Fields entered the sitting-room at the same moment 
that Helen descended the stairs. 

Philip turned away. It was the girl who spoke 
first. 

“Jerome ! Oh, I am so glad ! Rex is gone, and I 
am all alone." 

The man advanced, his hands extended. 
“Helen!" he cried, but the girl's low, sweet voice 
stayed the passionate words upon his lips. 

“I am glad to see one of his friends. It was very 
kind in you to come to him." 

He understood. The clasp in which he took the 
hand she offered him was only that of her brother's 
friend. They talked in a constrained manner. 


156 Entering Into His Own 

When Doctor Fields expressed his regret that a life 
of so much promise had gone out so untimely, Helen 
replied : 

'‘Rex felt it to be all right. God gave him but a 
few years, yet he did more than some in a long life. 
Will you come to him?’’ 

She led the way to the inner room. Reverently 
she lifted the covering from the calm dead face. The 
two who had loved Rex Abbot stood, one on each 
side of his body. 

Suddenly Helen burst into a storm of sobs. “O 
Rex! How can I go on living without you!” 

Her companion came to her side, but she waved 
him back. 

“Please leave me. I am glad you are here, but 
leave me now.” 

He had to go, disappointed and heartsick. Philip 
walked to the village with him, and the day was 
occupied in making arrangements for the sad jour- 
ney. Doctor Fields telegraphed Helen’s cousins, 
and a return message assured them that everything 
would be waiting their arrival. 

Among the many who came to the cottage was 
one Helen asked should be shown up to her. This 
was Doctor Mills. 

“I want to thank you for all you did for him,” 
she said, putting both her hands in his unsteady 
ones. “I shall not return here, but some day I shall 
come back to see you. It grieves me to think of 
you here, alone and lonely.” 

Great tears rolled down his cheeks. “Dear child, 


Plans for the Future 157 

I am not worthy a single thought from you. I shall 
miss Phil, but it will be better for him to be away 
from here. Here he is hurt and shamed by my life. 
Ah, Helen Abbot, I see my mistake. Sorrow came 
to me, as it did to you. I had none of your courage 
and, throwing up the promise of my young man- 
hood, I came here to lead a life of debauchery and 
shame. ’’ 

“It is not too late,” she began, but he stopped 
her. 

“It is too late. God bless you for all you have 
been to Phil ! Good-by.” 

It was sundown when they took their places in the 
car. Helen turned her head for a last look at the 
cottage. 

“Your home, Philip. Your home that you shared 
with us.” 

On the morning of the second day following there 
was a simple service in the church where Rex and 
Helen had been baptized. Many former friends of 
the family were present. Philip was glad to see that 
Helen would not lack kindly attention. 

After all was over she went home with the cou- 
sins who had been so kind. They wished Philip to 
accompany them, but Doctor Fields would not let 
him go. 

“Graham is my guest while he is here. He can 
come down to-morrow,” he said, drawing Philip’s 
arm within his own. 

That evening the two men dined at a hotel. They 
had the table to themselves. 


158 Entering Into His Own 

“I want to have a good talk with you,” Doctor 
Fields began soon after they were seated. ''Graham, 
I do not mean to be inquisitive, but I wish you would 
tell me frankly about your affairs. You have a right 
to know why I ask this.” 

Fie stopped for a moment. Philip waited in 
silence for him to proceed. 

"I think you understand my interest in the 
Abbots. For their sake I want you to let me 
prove my friendship for the one who did so much 
for them.” 

"Thank you. Doctor Fields. I appreciate this and 
will gladly count you as one of my friends. What I 
did for Rex and Helen was nothing in comparison 
to what they did for me. They opened their home 
to me, taught me a thousand things concerning the 
refinements and graces of daily living, roused my 
ambition, and led me to plan for a thorough educa- 
tion. Whatever I accomplish in the future will be 
their work.” 

"You are not lacking in gratitude. Will you tell 
me what I ask? All about your circumstances and 
if you have plenty of money for your college ex- 
penses. I know you are planning to complete the 
four-years’ course in three years. It is not a wise 
thing, but you can do it.” 

Philip’s face flushed as he made a full statement 
of his case. He was planning to live in a simple, 
economical manner and had money enough to last 
him two years. 

"If necessary I can stop a year and earn the money 


Plans for the Future 159 

to go on with/’ he said, with a defiant toss of his 
chestnut head. “Or I can sell more building lots 
from my little property.” 

“Why not sell the whole place? It is an ideal 
summer home and would find a ready sale.” 

“I shall never sell it,” a little curtly. “It is my 
home.” 

Jerome Fields shrugged his shoulders as he 
leisurely ate his salad. “Pardon me, Graham, but 
you are too sentimental. The world will cure you, 
though. Once for all, give up the thought of leav- 
ing Evanston until you have your bachelor’s degree. 
Do not deny yourself whatever you need for your 
comfort. I shall be glad to advance you any sum 
you may want. Tush, man! You look as if I had 
insulted you. It would be a loan, a simple business 
transaction.” 

Philip shook his head. “I would rather not go 
in debt, but I thank you. There will be many ways 
in which you can help me. I want to learn every- 
thing. The only weak point in my plan is that I 
have settled on no vocation.” 

“It is as well. A single year’s study here will 
widen your horizon. I would say you were a natur- 
al-born scientist but only along naturalistic lines. 
You have a gift of ready expression, and I hear you 
sometimes appear in print. There you ar,e, blush- 
ing again ! If you will let me give you one more 
piece of advice I will stop.” 

Philip smiled. “Proceed. I’ll try to remember it 
all, even if I cannot act upon it.” 


i6o Entering Into His Own 

“That is just what I am afraid of. Here it is. 
Let poetry alone. If you must write, write 
prose.’' 

“Then you are not a believer in the divine art?” 

Jerome Fields looked sharply at his companion. 
“I would rather be a poet than a king. It is because 
I believe there is the making of one in you that I am 
giving you this advice. Poetry must have time and 
matured thought. Now let us go for a walk.” 

The next afternoon Philip went to see Helen. On 
the following day he was to return to Harbor 
Springs. 

Helen looked so wan and weary that Philip was 
frightened. She assured him that she would soon 
be her old self. 

“It will be four weeks before the entrance ex- 
aminations to the university,” she said when they 
came to speak of themselves. “I shall be at Evans- 
ton to welcome you when you arrive. I must see 
you often, Philip, for you are all the brother I have 
now.” 

Tears dimmed Philip’s boyish eyes. He faltered: 

“It makes me proud to hear you call me that. He 
was older than you, your adviser and helper, but I 
am too ignorant to be of use to you. I will not pre- 
sume to speak of taking his place, but, Helen, I will 
gladly serve you, both for his sake and for your 
own.” 

They talked a long time. It was arranged that 
Philip should ship Helen’s piano, books and some 
other things to her. The rest of her property was 


Plans for the Future i6i 

to be stored in a loft over the dining-room and left 
until wanted. 

“My dearest love to Doctor Mills/’ she said in 
parting. “We must manage some way so he will 
not miss you too much.” 

The day Philip returned to his home was a sultry 
one. All the afternoon a bank of clouds lay low in 
the west, and a muttering of distant thunder could 
be heard. 

Philip was sad and lonely. He was going home, 
but it was to a home made desolate by death. At 
Wequetonsing he left the train. It was no further 
to his home from there than from Harbor Springs, 
and he hoped to avoid meeting any one who would 
talk to him of Rex and Helen. 

The key had been left with Mrs. Perrine. Philip 
stopped for it, reaching the cottage about sundown. 
The clouds were rising rapidly. Already they were 
veined by lightning, and the thunder was increasing 
in heaviness and frequency. The air was stifling, 
while the water of the bay presented a strange, glassy 
appearance. 

“I am glad you are here before the storm.” It was 
Mrs. Perrine who spoke, and she ascended the ver- 
anda steps, a covered tray in her hands. “Here is 
your supper. I knew you would rather have it here 
than to come to my house.” 

Philip thanked her. She started to go but turned 
to say: 

“I do not like to tell you, Philip, but Doctor Mills 
has been drinking frightfully while you have been 


i 62 Entering Into His Own 

away. It is the first time he ever appeared on the 
street when intoxicated, but Mr. Perrine saw him 
this afternoon so drunk he could not keep on the 
walk.” 

Philip's face showed his pain. The good woman 
went, her going hastened by the threatening storm. 
Philip looked down the beach in the direction of 
the village. 

‘Toor old man! How can he? All summer he 
has refrained from drink for my sake and that of 
my friends. I will go at once and look him up.” 

Ere he reached the village there came a gust of 
wind straight across the bay. The water was a dull 
gray and began to rise in short, choppy waves. 
Philip hurried on. A group of men on the steamer 
wharf saw him and motioned for him to join them. 

‘T am glad you are here, Phil, although no one 
can do anything,” one of them exclaimed. “To put 
out on the bay now would be suicide.” 

“What is it?” Philip asked, a strange sinking at 
his heart. 

The men looked at one another. It was left for 
Ralph Webster, the one who had spoken, to reply : 

“It is Doctor Mills. We have just learned from 
a boy that an hour ago he went out in a rowboat. 
You know he is no oarsman.” 

Philip sprang upon a box and swept the bay with 
his eye. It was fast growing dark, the rain was fall- 
ing in torrents, but the water was constantly illumi- 
nated by the lurid lightning. Already the surface of 
the bay was whipped into a mass of white foam. 


Plans for the Future 163 

‘There, Phil ! Way out by the Point!” some one 
shouted above the noise of the storm. “I am sure 
that is a boat.” 

The young man jumped down. “May I take your 
boat, Tim? It is one of the best on the bay, and if 
I lose it you — ” 

Tim interrupted him. “You know you are wel- 
come to the boat, but it is certain death to venture 
out now.” 

Ralph Webster caught Philip’s arm. “Don’t 
think of it, Phil. I know the old man was good to 
you, but your life is worth a dozen like his.” 

Philip stood irresolute. The rain continued to 
fall in great blinding sheets, and already the dark- 
ness of night had settled over the bay. What should 
he doS 


CHAPTER XV. 


^‘’greater love hath no man.^^ 

I T was only a minute that Philip stood irreso- 
lute; minutes were precious. He knew the 
danger attending an attempt to cross the bay. 
Life was never sweeter than at that moment. His 
near future held the things for which he had long 
yearned, but the memory of what Doctor Mills had 
been to him swept across his mind, blotting out all 
thought of self. 

With a prayer for help in his heart he leaped for- 
ward to where Tim’s boat was moored. 

“1 must go, boys. Help me off.” 

All understood the ring of decision in Philip’s 
voice, and no more was said against his going. In- 
stead willing hands aided him. Soon he was off, 
and the older men shouted advice after him. 

The wind had shifted to the west. This enabled 
Philip to put his boat before it. The light craft rode 
the water, but every moment great waves threatened 
to engulf it. 

Philip felt no fear ; every faculty was alert to ac- 
complish what he had undertaken. The lightning 
continued to brighten the troubled water, and in the 
brief flashes Philip scanned the surface of the bay. 
He guided his boat by the lighthouse’s glow. In 


‘^Greater Love Hath no Man” 165 

the partial lull following each peal of thunder he 
shouted the doctor's name. 

Already he had reached and passed the spot where 
he had seen the boat. Was he too late? It required 
the utmost care to prevent his boat being swept out 
into the lake. 

Suddenly the wind slackened and the rain fell 
less swiftly. Philip heard a faint cry in response to 
his call. It came again. He threw back his head 
and waited for the next flash of lightning. 

There ! Off at his right was something. With a 
ringing cheer he changed the course of his boat. 
The next gleam of lurid light showed the object to 
be an overturned boat. Philip saw that clinging to 
it was a man. 

The most difficult part of his task still lay before 
him — the transfer of Doctor Mills to his own boat. 
This could not have been accomplished had not the 
storm slackened. The apparent helplessness of the 
doctor made the task more difficult. 

At last it was done. Doctor Mills lay prostrate 
in the bottom of the boat. For a moment Philip 
sank down beside him, too exhausted to do aught 
save let the boat drift at the mercy of the wind and 
waves. 

He soon roused himself. Looking shoreward he 
saw that his friends had kindled a great bonfire on 
the beach as a guide to him. It was not far from his 
own home, that part of the coast being easy of ac- 
cess. 

The wind had died away. Already the clouds 


i66 Entering Into His Own 

were parting, showing glimpses of the calm, star- 
strewn heavens. The waves still ran high, their 
crests showing pale and ghostly in the darkness. 
Philip grasped the oars and headed the boat for the 
light. 

“How are you feeling?’’ he asked, bending his 
head toward the recumbent figure. 

The doctor moved, tried to rise to a sitting posi- 
tion, then fell back with a groan. 

“I can’t sit up, lad. When the boat was over- 
turned it struck me across the back. All that saved 
me from going down was because I was tangled in 
some ropes that were in the boat. To think, Phil, 
that you should risk your life for mine! Your life 
— noble, clean, with the promise of honor and fame 
— for mine that is a curse!” 

The voice was so despairing that Philip shivered. 
For a few minutes neither of the men spoke. It took 
all Philip’s strength to send the boat along through 
the troubled water. They were not far from the 
shore when Doctor Mills spoke again. 

“Something keeps ringing in my ears, Phil, a 
memory from my far-away boyhood when even I 
was taught of righteousness and a life to come. 
‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay 
down his life for his friends.’ Phil, you laid down 
your life for me, but the good God spared it. Why 
did you do it, lad?” 

Philip rested on his oars a moment. “Why? 
Your quotation gives the reason. You are my 
friend.” 


‘‘Greater Love Hath no Man** 167 

‘1 your friend ! Alas, how poor a one 

The boat approached the shore. Philip had an- 
nounced his coming by a cheery call, and a half 
dozen strong men were standing waist deep in the 
surf, ready to draw the boat up on the shore. 

“You found the doctor and brought him back!’’ 
Ralph Webster cried in astonishment. “I did not 
think it could be done.” 

“Lift him out, boys.” Philip leaped from the 
boat and stood trembling and gasping for breath. 
“He is injured. Carry him up to my house; it is 
nearer than the village.” 

“There is a fire there, too. The Perrines heard 
of your foolhardy venture and have everything in 
readiness for you, although none of us expected you 
would come back.” 

Philip was too exhausted to talk. Once at the 
house he was taken in hand by Mrs. Perrine, who 
insisted on his going to bed. 

“I will see to Doctor Mills, see to everything,” she 
said, and Philip was too weary to say her nay. 

He obediently swallowed the bowl of hot milk she 
brought him. Then he turned on his pillow and fell 
asleep. 

It was long after sunrise when Philip woke. 
There was a glass in the door which opened on the 
upper balcony. Through it the sunlight came, flood- 
ing the room with radiance. Philip lay still and 
slowly recalled the events of the preceding night. 

A great wave of gratitude swept over him when 
he recalled the danger through which he had passed. 


i68 Entering Into His Own 

‘Toor Doctor Mills!’' he thought as he rose. 
‘While life does not hold much for him, death would 
not have been for him what it was for Rex.” 

Descending the stairs he found Jim Harkness, an 
Indian lad, on guard. Doctor Mills was sleeping. 
Motherly Mrs. Perrine had left everything in readi- 
ness for breakfast. 

Philip bade the boy remain while he went out for 
a breath of fresh air. Outside there was no trace 
of the storm, save the driftwood that was strewn 
along the beach. The water was a deep blue. Far 
out on the bay this merged into a cool, pale green. 
The waves glittered and scintillated in the sunlight. 

The calm scene and the fresh, life-giving air 
brought Philip renewed strength. After a brisk 
walk he returned to the cottage, dismissed Jim, and 
prepared breakfast. 

Doctor Mills did not wake until near noon. He 
was confused, and it took Philip some time to make 
him understand where he was and what had hap- 
pened. The doctor could not move his lower limbs. 
He ate a few mouthfuls and soon fell asleep. 

That afternoon Philip summoned the other phy- 
sician of the village. Doctor Nevins was young 
and looked upon the older practitioner with disfavor. 
After a careless examination he said : 

“There is nothing wrong. The power to use his 
limbs will return in a short time. Just now he is 
getting over a protracted drunk.” 

Philip frowned. Doctor Nevins paused on the 
veranda to further express his opinion. 


^‘Greater Love Hath no Man” 169 

“Too bad, Graham, you have the old fellow sad- 
dled upon you here. Fd send him to the poorhouse; 
it’s the place for him. Of course you understand 
there could be no professional jealousy in my case; 
I would not think of comparing myself with such a 
wreck. Still I must say it would have been a bless- 
ing to the village if you had let him go to the bottom 
of the bay last night.” 

Philip’s face was white with anger as he faced the 
dapper little doctor. 

“Will you please remember that Doctor Mills is 
my friend? He has faults — grave ones that have 
wrecked his life, but I doubt. Doctor Nevins, if you 
will ever do for the people of Harbor Springs what 
Doctor Mills has done. Good afternoon.” 

For several days Doctor Mills slept much of the 
time. When awake he did not seem to fully realize 
where he was. Philip cared for him with the utmost 
patience. 

It was a week after the rescue when one afternoon 
Doctor Mills called Philip to him. The older man 
was himself again. 

“I want to talk to you, lad,” he began, keeping 
his eyes turned away from the other’s face. “I can’t 
thank you; there’s no use trying. You are a man 
of whom that angel mother of yours may well be 
proud. The fact that you have a warm corner in 
your heart for such a wretch as I am will do much 
to brighten the few days that are left me. You’ve 
cared for me here as if I was a prince, but I think 
in the morning I’ll be going.” 


170 Entering Into His Own 

'^Going! Going where? You can’t walk.” 

“I can be carried. As to where I am going, why, 
home of course. My office and the room back of it 
have been my home for years. Jim Harkness will 
bring me my meals and run errands for me until I 
am around again.” 

His dull, apathetic voice chilled Philip. The 
shadow of a coming calamity settled upon the 
youth’s spirits, but he replied lightly : 

“I think I am a better purveyor and nurse than 
Jim Harkness. You are to stay here for the pres- 
ent.” 

The doctor tried to sit up. “Lad, I can’t. I’ll 
be better off there and it will soon be time for you 
to go to Evanston.” 

“Three weeks yet. Plenty of time for you to get 
well.” Philip laid one hand upon the doctor’s hot 
forehead. “Let us understand each other, my friend. 
For years you paid my board. I owe you hundreds 
of dollars, and to pay this debt should be my first 
consideration. I’ve no real right to spend money for 
an education and leave you unpaid.” 

Doctor Mills struggled up on one elbow. “Don’t 
talk that way, Phil! You do not owe me a cent; 
I shall never allow you to repay the money I spent 
for you. Why, lad, not a dollar of it would have 
been saved. All would have gone for drink.” 

Philip took up his hat. “There is no use of your 
talking of going now; I will not allow it. I will 
walk down to the village for the mail while you take 
a nap.” 


""Greater Love Hath no Man” 171 

No sooner had the door closed upon him than 
Doctor Mills writhed to and fro as if in mortal 
agony. Great drops of sweat stood on his face and 
hands. 

“God help me! Help me to get him away from 
here before he learns the truth ! I must find some 
way.’' 

Two weeks went by. There was no change in 
Doctor Mills save that an agonized expression set- 
tled on his face. He said he did not suffer, but 
Philip could not understand his strange reticence 
and excitement. One afternoon the young man 
asked Jim Harkness to remain at the cottage while 
he went, in his sailboat, to Petoskey. 

Arriving at that city, he sought Doctor Richard- 
son, the physician who had been called for Rex. 
To him Philip told the story of the accident and 
asked him to visit Doctor Mills. 

Doctor Richardson was a kindly, honorable man. 
He knew his brother physician well and, while de- 
ploring the other’s habits, was able to see his good 
qualities. He also knew all about Philip’s past 
and evinced much interest in his plans for the 
future. 

“I’ll go back with you this afternoon,” was his 
cordial reply to Philip’s request. “It is a beautiful 
day for a sail, and I can come back on the train.” 

They started at once. As the Helen neared the 
little dock in front of the cottage Philip said : 

“Doctor Richardson, I am going to ask you to be 
perfectly frank with me. I am sure Doctor Mills 


172 Entering Into His Own 

is trying to keep his real condition from me, but I 
want you to tell me the exact truth. Under the 
circumstances I feel that I have a right to know.’' 

‘‘Indeed you have, Graham. I will tell you just 
how I understand the case.” 

Doctor Mills was not pleased to see his caller. He 
made light of his present condition, but he could not 
conceal his great nervousness. Philip saw that it 
v/ould be difficult for Doctor Richardson to learn 
the truth in the presence of a third party. So the 
young man left the room and sat down on the ve- 
randa with a book. 

It was some time before Doctor Richardson 
joined him. The physician’s face was grave. 

“I will take the train at Wequetonsing. Walk 
over there with me, Graham.” 

Philip complied with the request. For a few mo- 
ments the two men walked along in silence. 

“Poor Mills!” Doctor Richardson said with a 
deep sigh. “It’s all up with him. He’ll never walk 
again, Graham. The lower part of his body is par- 
alyzed. He understands the situation exactly and 
charged me, over and over, to give you no hint of 
it.” 

“Never walk!” Philip said in a husky, unnatural 
voice. “How dreadful ! Why, what will become of 
him ?” 

Doctor Richardson shot a keen glance at the boy- 
ish face of the speaker. “Has he no relatives?” 
was all he said. 

“None with whom he holds any communication. 


‘‘Greater Love Hath noMan” 173 

iWhen he came to Harbor Springs he shut the door 
upon his past life.” 

“Humph ! Hard lines ! It must be charity then. 
Perhaps I can get trace of some institution where 
he can be entered. Ah, here comes my car. Good- 
by, Graham. I’ll see Mills again in a short time.” 

Philip walked back to the cottage. He was dazed. 
Doctor Mills helpless! What lay before the man 
who, when he should have been in his prime, was 
a total wreck? It was the doctor’s own evil habits 
that had spoiled his life. But what was to become 
of him? 

With an impatient shrug of his shoulders Philip 
tried to put the question from him. He must have 
time to regain his usual composure. Then he could 
look upon the matter aright and decide upon some 
course of action. 

He entered the cottage by the kitchen door. Jim 
Harkness was still there. The Indian lad sat near 
the table, regaling himself with a handful of 
crackers. As he looked up at Philip a crafty smile 
came to his dark face. 

“The old man is a fool,” he said in the correct 
English taught at the Catholic school, for Jim had 
been a pupil there. “He offered me a dollar, last 
one he had, too, to get some one to carry him down 
to his office. Said I was not to tell you.” 

Philip made no response, and Jim went on. 

“I asked him what he’d do there. He offered me 
a lot of accounts that are coming to him if I’d take 
care of him until you are gone. Then he says he’ll 


174 Entering Into His Own 

go to the poorhouse. I’d send him there now. It’s a 
good enough place for him.” 

Philip felt as if a hand was clutching his throat. 
He must get out under the open sky. 

can you stay here all night?” he asked. 

“Why, yes, if you want me.” 

“I do want you to stay. Tell Doctor Mills I was 
obliged to go away and will not be at home until 
very late. You give him his supper and see that 
you are good to him. If you are not there will be 
trouble.” 

Jim promised to carry out the instructions given 
him. He was curious to learn where Philip was 
going but failed to do so. 

Without entering the other part of the house 
Philip took his departure. He walked in the di- 
rection of the village. To the greetings of those 
whom he met the young man returned only a curt 
nod. He must get where, alone and undisturbed, he 
could solve the problem that confronted him. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


ONE night's vigil. 

P hilip walked through the village and con- 
tinued his way round the head of the bay. 
Soon after passing the last straggling row 
of houses he entered the forest which still covered 
a part of Harbor Point. This had been reserved as 
a park by the association which owned the Point and, 
although crossed and recrossed in all directions by 
walks, it was still wild and lonely. 

The youth made his way across the narrow neck 
of land and came to the pebbly shore of Lake Mich- 
igan. Turning sharply to the left he followed along 
the shore. 

It was late in the afternoon. The sun was fast 
nearing the western horizon. Many of the summer 
residents of Harbor Point had already left for their 
distant homes. A few of the cottages were still 
open, and, as Philip passed along, his head bowed 
upon his breast, he occasionally heard merry voices 
and laughter from some house that stood directly 
upon the beach. 

He pushed on until he had left the last dwelling 
behind him. The extreme end of the Point was a 
sandy waste covered with a growth of low shrubs 


176 Entering Into His Own 

and coarse grass. A part of this was enclosed by a 
stout fence, and within the enclosure stood the light- 
house. The lower part of the structure was used 
as a dwelling for the keeper’s family, the light- 
tower surmounting the building. 

Philip sat down upon the shore and turned to look 
westward. Notwithstanding all he had to think of 
he noticed the beauty of the sunset. 

The low-lying, fleecy clouds partly obscured the 
face of the orb of day and were tinged with saffron 
and soft crimson light. Higher up in the sky were 
masses of clouds denser and darker. The lake 
stretched away into the distance, the tranquil water 
reflecting the sunset’s radiance. 

Gradually the light faded. Darkness descended. 
It was a still, calm night. There was no moon, but 
the stars shone out, the silvery light causing the 
gently-moving waves to glisten and sparkle. 

Philip sprang up and walked out to the extreme 
edge of Harbor Point, the narrow strip of land that 
separated the waters of Little Travers Bay from 
those of Lake Michigan. There he threw himself 
prone on his face. The slow hours went by, and 
still Philip Graham lay on the sand, waging a fear- 
ful battle. 

How could he? How could he give up the stu- 
dious life that was within his grasp, the life that was 
to pave the way for a real and enduring success? 
How could he give the days of his youth to the care 
of a helpless invalid ? 

He recalled the story of his parents’ brief wedded 




HE NOTICED THE BEAUTY OF THE SUNSET. 


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One Night’s Vigil 177 

life. Had it not been their dream that he — their son 
— should one day win this prize that was now within 
his grasp? His mother had bidden him seek and 
find the place in the great world that was his. In 
doing this, was he not obeying her? 

Philip was not conceited. Neither did he under- 
rate his mental powers. He knew his mind, prop- 
erly trained, would be capable of good work. A 
mighty hunger for knowledge possessed him. He 
must know and understand. 

What was it that rose up before him? A pain- 
lined face, one upon which sorrow and sin had set 
their unmistakable sign. Doctor Mills had delib- 
erately thrown from him the worthy things of life. 
He had wasted his best days and crippled the body 
God had given him. 

Another picture swept across the mental horizon 
of the struggling youth. He saw himself as he was 
at the time of his mother’s death — a timid, shrink- 
ing, love-hungry child. Philip shuddered as he re- 
called the years he had spent in the home of Deacon 
Ashley. Even then he had had a friend. It was 
Doctor Mills who had provided for his wants, 
planned his few pleasures, and whose coming had 
brought him joy. 

Then there came a memory of the time when he 
ran away from the Ashley home. How wretched 
and heart-sore he had been! It was Doctor Mills 
who comforted him, provided a pleasant home for 
him, and enabled him to attend school. 

Philip realized how much access to his father’s 


178 Entering Into His Own 

library had done for him. The books would have 
been sold had it not been for the faithful physician. 
He had also provided the kindly care of Mrs. King. 
Had it not been for Doctor Mills Philip could not 
have acquired education enough to have taught. 
Thus he might have missed meeting the two who 
had done so much for him — Rex and Helen. 

And now? This man who had sinned and suf- 
fered, who had never refused to spend himself for 
others or to share with them his scanty store — must 
he end his days in the poorhouse ? 

‘Tt shall not be!” Philip cried aloud, springing 
up and beginning to pace back and forth. ‘Tf there 
is no other way I must sacrifice myself, but where 
am I to find the strength for that?” 

He knew well what the decision would mean. 
He must keep the crippled physician in his own 
home, caring for him and doing the work of the 
household. That was not all. Philip must find 
some way whereby he could earn daily bread for 
both of them. 

Suddenly he thought of Rex Abbot. Ah, the fu- 
ture had beckoned him, a future of honor and pleas- 
ure. He had given his days to a round of petty 
duties amid unpleasant surroundings. A little 
further on, and he had met pain and death with 
never a sigh for the joys of life. 

How was it? Whence had come Rex Abbot's 
power? Philip asked himself what the need was 
in his own nature. As if in response to these ques- 
tions the waves breaking on the beach seemed to 


One Night’s Vigil 179 

murmur his friend's dying words, ‘1 expect you to 
carry on my work by letting men see the Christ in 
you." 

That was it. That was the source of Rex's power 
and of his own need. He could not show men what 
he had not, he could not meet this crisis in his own 
life without something above and beyond himself 
upon which he could lean. 

The night wore away. Philip did not heed the 
coolness of the air. For hours he paced back and 
forth, alone save for the flashing light from the 
lighthouse and the stars overhead. 

It was not until dawn was flushing the east that 
Philip turned his steps homeward. His face was 
pale but serene. He had fought his life's battle and 
won. 

He walked briskly. Reaching the cottage, he 
roused Jim and sent him home. Then he prepared 
breakfast. When Doctor Mills woke he found 
Philip at his side. 

‘T hope you are hungry this morning," the young 
man said, as he helped the invalid into a chair and 
brought him water to bathe his hands and face. “If 
you fail to do justice to my cooking I shall resent it." 

Doctor Mills peered up into Philip's face. “What 
is it, lad? You look as if you had heard good news. 
Where were you last night?" 

“I will tell you all about it after breakfast," and 
Philip left the room, soon to reappear, bearing a tray. 

He arranged it on a small table. There was a 
bunch of grapes, a delicately-browned slice of toast, 


i8o Entering Into His Own 

a bit of broiled fish, and a wee pot of coffee. Doctor 
Mills looked up, tears standing in his eyes. 

^Thil, you serve me as if I was a king.^’ 

‘‘I am sure you deserve the best of service from 
me. Now while you are eating I will read you a 
story from the magazine Helen sent.” 

The meal and the story finished Philip carried 
the tray to the kitchen. A little later he returned 
and sat down by the side of his friend. 

*T want to tell you about last night.” 

‘^Eh, lad? I trust it was something good that 
came to you.” 

‘Tt was, life’s greatest good. I went over on the 
beach at Harbor Point last night to settle the ques- 
tion of my future and yours. I know all about your 
helpless condition. Doctor Mills, you were a father 
to me in the days of my dependent youth. Now I 
am going to be a son to you. I am young; my edu- 
cation can wait. You and I are to stay on here and 
make each other happy.” 

‘^No, no,” the old man almost screamed. ‘T will 
not have your life spoiled for me. It will not be 
long, and I can bear it.” 

They talked a long time. Philip was determined. 
At last the doctor cried : 

‘‘You cannot do it, lad. After a time you would 
come to hate me, and that would be worse than the 
poorhouse.” 

Philip laid one hand upon the other’s arm. ‘T 
shall never hate you. Let me tell you how I can do 
this. It is not easy to put it into words, but in the 


One Night’s Vigil i8i 

silent hours of last night I learned the source of 
Rex's self-sacrifice. You know he bade me let men 
see the Christ in my life, and I — well, I let him enter 
my heart.” 

“Ah, now I understand. It must be true — all 
that Rex said of this Christ. That saint, Helen, 
first showed me what his companionship must be 
like, and now you. O my boy, how can I let you 
sacrifice your future to me!” 

“You gave years of your life to me. It is not 
sacrifice in either case. It is — love.” 

He held out both his hands. Doctor Mills took 
them in his own, and tears from the crippled man’s 
eyes fell upon the clasped hands. 

“God bless you, lad I He has blessed you. Phil, 
the future will bring you recompense for this. It 
means much to me, but it will not be for long.” 

That afternoon Philip wrote to Helen, telling her 
of his changed plans. Three days later he received 
a letter from her. Part of it ran : 

“You will never know the joy your letter brought 
me, never until some one whom you love rises to the 
heights where you now stand. Philip, I think you 
never realized how ardently my brother yearned for 
you to accept Christ. Once he said to me that he 
feared it was some unfaithfulness of his that stood 
in your way. Now I feel that you learned of Christ 
by seeing him in the life and work of Rex. 

“Philip, in deciding to stay with Doctor Mills you 
have done nobly. You are young; there is time for 
your future to hold the fruition of all your dreams. 


i 82 Entering Into His Own 

Keep up your studies. Never, never become 
downcast. Whatever comes, your present and 
your future are in God’s hands. Walk forward, 
harkening only to his voice, and your life shall be 
crowned with his blessing and loving favor.” 

Philip took the words of Helen literally. There 
was no useless repining, no grieving for the things 
he had given up. He was very busy, for the life 
before him was to be filled with labor. 

Doctor Mills soon gained the power to make his 
way round the house in a wheel chair. This gave 
Philip liberty to leave him during the day. The 
young man’s first work was to provide a liberal sup- 
ply of fuel for the long, cold winter. As much of 
his little farm was still covered with the forest, wood 
was to be had for the cutting. 

Before this task was finished Philip met with an 
unexpected trial. One October afternoon he was at 
work in the woods. The air was mild and balmy. 
A golden haze rested upon the surface of the water 
and veiled the summit of the bluff. Philip’s sturdy 
blows were interrupted by the sound of approaching 
footsteps. He looked up to see Doctor Fields but 
a few paces away. 

Philip dropped his ax and hurried forward, his 
hand extended. 

“Doctor Fields ! This is an unexpected pleasure.” 

The new-comer shrugged his shoulders. “How 
are the mighty fallen! Graham, you do not know 
how you have disappointed me. I was sure you 
would become a student worthy the name. You 


One Night’s Vigil 183 

are a born naturalist and a poet as well. And I find 
you contentedly settling down as a wood-chopper 
and a housekeeper.” 

Philip’s face flushed. He had written Fields of 
his change of plans and the reason for the change. 

“I’ve come all the way from Evanston to remon- 
strate with you,” Doctor Fields went on, with a 
smile which completely transformed his face. “If 
you can leave your work let us sit down here and 
talk the matter over.” 

They sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree. 
For a few minutes no word was spoken. Philip’s 
eyes rested upon the bay, which was visible through 
an opening in the forest. Fields studied the face 
of his companion. It was the older man who spoke 
first. 

“That is not all I came for, Graham. I came to 
take you back with me. Nay, hear me before you 
refuse. Will you let me tell you exactly what you 
are doing? Remember I am nearly twice your age, 
and my life has been lived in the busy marts of men. 
You have lived in seclusion, shaping your ideas of 
the world from nature and from books.” 

“Of course I will listen to you.” Philip spoke 
slowly. “Any effort to make me change my mind 
will be useless, though; I know I have chosen the 
right course.” 

“Philip Graham, you are doing wrong. It is not 
alone yourself you are wronging; it is the world. 
Each person who comes upon life’s stage gifted with 
talents is under obligations to mankind to use those 


184 Entering Into His Own 

talents for the improvement of the world. In your 
case I think what we call talents may develop into 
genius. If so the obligation laid upon you is the 
greater. Again I tell you you must not settle down 
here in inactivity and ease.” 

Philip smiled and pointed to a large pile of wood. 

^‘That does not stand for inactivity and ease. 
Doctor Fields, I have no idea of refusing to use 
whatever gifts may be mine. However, I must do 
the duty that stands nearest.” 

“Duty! Bah! Your conception of that word 
sickens me. Rex Abbot did his work well. He 
has forced upon you the same mistaken zeal that 
robbed him of his life.” 

“Be careful how you speak of Rex,” and Philip’s 
eyes kindled. “He was my best friend; what he 
gave me was a high ideal of life. Now listen to me. 
Let me tell you what Doctor Mills — broken-down 
and wrecked as he is — is to me.” 

Jerome Fields listened to the story with barely 
concealed impatience. He could not deny that Philip 
told it well, but the proud, self-confident man re- 
fused to accept the youth’s standard of self-sacrifice 
and duty. 

“The old fellow has been kind to you,” he said, 
as if making a great concession. “When you are in 
a position to aid him it will doubtless be a pleasure 
for you to do so, and then — ” 

“He may not be here then,” Philip interrupted 
him to say. 

“Why throw away your best years for him? 


One Night’s Vigil 185 

Make arrangements to have him taken care of by the 
proper authorities and go back to Evanston with 
me. If it hurts your conscience — that conscience 
which the Abbots have stimulated to an unhealthy 
condition — I will help you find some charitable in- 
stitution besides the poorhouse. When you saved 
this man’s worthless life you paid the debt you owed 
him.” 

Philip Graham stood up. Unwaveringly his blue 
eyes met those of the older man. 

‘‘It is useless to argue further. I must do this 
thing, and I am doing it gladly as the will of God.” 

Fields, too, rose. He was taller than Philip. He 
bent forward, bringing his face, upon which there 
was a sneer, on a level with that of the other. 

“I will not press the matter further. You have 
cast away much; I stood ready to befriend you in 
many ways, for I thought you made of different stuff 
from this. Now that you have adopted the fanati- 
cism that took Rex Abbot’s life and robbed his sister 
of happiness I will have nothing more to do with 
you.” 

Philip’s breath came fast. He saw something 
more than the disappointment of a scholar in the 
other’s face. Had Jerome Fields intended, through 
him, to touch Helen? 

Doctor Fields turned to go. Philip accompanied 
him, urging him to remain at the cottage until the 
next day. This Fields refused to do. He took the 
first train south, leaving Philip with only a gruff 
good-by. 


i86 Entering Into His Own 

‘‘And I hoped we were to be friends/' the young 
man thought as he walked homeward. “I looked 
to him to help me find my place in the world, to lead 
and guide me. Ah well! I will do the work that 
is mine now ; the future will bring its own duties." 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE PASSING OF A YEAR. 

P hilip knew his decision was a great surprise 
to his friends in the village. Many who had 
known the young man from his birth 
thought, with Doctor Fields, that he was throwing 
away his hope of future usefulness. Others under- 
stood and did not hesitate to express their ap- 
proval. 

‘‘I know it seems like a sacrifice,” the kindly, gray- 
haired minister, who had so often visited Rex, said, 
“but it is surely following the example of the one who 
gave his life as a sacrifice for the sins of the world. 
He will bless you, my dear boy.” 

“He is blessing me now,” Philip replied. “I am 
very happy.” 

This happiness was apparent. Even Doctor Mills 
could not but see it, and it did much to reconcile him 
to the existing state of affairs. 

The doctor suffered no pain. At times he was 
restless and irritable. Philip came to understand 
that these were the times when his long-indulged 
appetite clamored for its accustomed stimulant. He 
did everything possible to sooth the doctor and tried 
to interest him in books. 


i88 Entering Into His Own 

Philip made ready for the coming winter. Then 
he started out to seek employment. He was eager 
to find work that would enable him to pay the ex- 
penses of his household and allow him some time 
for his studies. 

In this he was successful. A sawmill and a wood- 
en manufactory had been built on the shore between 
his home and the village. A bookkeeper and cor- 
respondence clerk was needed. The work would not 
occupy the entire day, and Philip was engaged to 
work from eight to twelve. The pay was not large 
but would meet the expenses of the two men. 

There was the work of the house. Mrs. Perrine 
did the baking, and the washing was sent away. 
Philip prepared the meals, washed the dishes, and 
kept the rooms in order. Occasionally Mrs. Per- 
rine came for a thorough sweeping and cleaning, 
but Philip was neat in all things. 

Autumn passed, and stern winter came. Philip 
was inured to the cold and, strong and vigorous, 
found it a delight. His love of nature feasted in 
winter, if not with the lavishness of summer at least 
with a keen relish. The sky with its shifting cloud 
pictures, the gradual grasp of the ice sprite upon 
the bay, the bluffs crowned with the dusky green 
of cedars and pines and frosted with snow, and, 
above all else, the somber stillness of the forest — 
all these things fed Philip’s beauty-loving nature. 

His studies were chosen with care. He followed 
the course in English literature that he had expected 
to take at Evanston. This embraced the history of 


The Passing of a Year 189 

the literature, and with it he read English constitu- 
tional history. To zoology he turned eagerly, sup- 
plementing his text books by studies of the living 
forms he obtained by dredging through the ice. 
Philosophy was not in his chosen course, but he read 
Spinoza, Hume and Locke. 

These last-named books were read aloud to Doc- 
tor Mills. The two discussed them. Philip de- 
nounced all that failed to recognize God as Creator 
and Father. It surprised him to see the physician’s 
mind gradually acquire a relish for the scholarly 
pursuits of his early manhood. Philip knew little 
of the doctor’s early life save that his professional 
training had been received in Boston and had been 
accompanied by much literary study. 

'‘What a fool I’ve been !” Doctor Mills exclaimed 
one day when Philip had been reading to him, and 
the fast-gathering twilight had made a pause neces- 
sary. "I might have made my life so different! I 
thought that after my trouble came nothing mat- 
tered.” 

Philip rose and lighted a lamp. "Hear the wind 
sweep over the bay! We will have a cozy evening 
together. Now if you don’t mind going over to- 
day’s paper so as to tell me the news while we are 
eating dinner I’ll make some apple fritters for that 
meal.” 

The doctor nodded a ready assent. Philip pro- 
ceeded to the kitchen, and a grave look came to the 
older man’s face. 

"When Rex was dying he bade my lad show men 


igo Entering Into His Own 

the Christ in his life. Even I, my eyes blinded by 
sin, cannot but see him in the boy’s face, words, and 
acts. Can there be — ” 

He broke off abruptly and took up the paper which 
Philip had laid at his elbow. 

As the winter went by a change could be seen in 
Doctor Mills. A questioning yet trusting expres- 
sion came to his worn face. One noon Philip, re- 
turning from his work, found the doctor with a 
Bible open before him. 

‘‘I begin to believe, lad, that there is hope for me,” 
he said, his voice vibrant with feeling. “I see the 
Christ in your life. If he can make you so much 
like himself, I — well, do you think I — ” and he 
stopped, unable to go on. 

Gently, half distrusting his own strength, Philip 
talked to the old man. 

‘‘I think it is all here,” and Doctor Mills turned 
the leaves of the Bible. “After my life the light may 
always be dim, but it shines, lad, it shines even for 
me.” 

Letters from Helen were a source of delight to 
both the dwellers in the little cottage. She was de- 
voting herself to her musical studies and would 
graduate in June. 

Philip mingled freely with his fellow men. Al- 
ready he felt the sense of responsibility regarding 
others that God lay upon those who serve him. He 
made friends with the half-grown boys and the 
young men of his own age. He could not talk to 
these as Rex had, but he sought to give them a high 


The Passing of a Year 191 

ideal of life and a desire for true nobility of charac- 
ter. 

“But Tm only an Indian,” Jim Harkness pleaded, 
when Philip gravely reproved him for idleness. 

“You are not responsible for what you are; what 
you will be is your own work. Why not make of 
yourself a man who will be an inspiration to others 
of your race? If you are not going to work this 
winter attend school. I will help you get books.” 

Jim shook his head. “Been to school. Father 
Carter says we Indians must not go to your school.” 

Philip frowned. “You are an adept at the basket 
work. Now that the summer tourists buy so many 
of your wares, you might make money. Does not 
Father Carter tell you to work ?” 

“He scolds when we do not have money for him 
and will not forgive our sins without it. I don’t 
care, not much. As for making baskets, I hate it, 
because it is Indian work.” 

It was hard to do the Indians real good. Notwith- 
standing the self-sacrificing devotion of some of the 
Catholic teachers, their work was bearing little fruit. 
They cared for the Indian children through child- 
hood, they taught them the tenets of the church, 
but, once dismissed from the school, the majority 
of the Indian youths and maidens soon sank to the 
level of their drunken, lazy parents. While there 
were exceptions to this class, they predominated. 
What was the flaw in the teaching given ? Were the 
children taught creed rather than Christ? 

At last lengthened days and balmy air began to 


192 Entering Into His Own 

herald the return of spring to that northern land. 
Philip welcomed it ecstatically. It was as if his 
mind sprang into new activity. He found himself 
giving the hours he had planned for study to writ- 
ing. 

“There! I have again disregarded Doctor Fields’ 
advice,” he admitted to himself late one evening. 
He was in his own upper room. Rising from the 
table where he had been writing out the poem that 
had all day sung itself to his consciousness, he passed 
out on the little balcony. ‘T might better have given 
the time to studying that curious crab I found yester- 
day.” 

A slow smile curved his lips as he stood there, his 
head thrown back, and his eyes fixed on the heaving, 
turbulent water of the bay. Suddenly he stretched 
out his arms. 

“There is a poem — nature’s own. It rings all 
the changes from the faint, sweet murmur of the 
waves to the howling of the tempest. When my soul 
becomes attuned to that, then will I write for all the 
world to read.” 

Doctor Mills was failing rapidly. He de- 
murred when Philip suggested another visit from 
Doctor Richardson. 

“It’s no use, lad. I’m glad, too. Now there is 
light, I long to go.” 

Doctor Richardson did come. Once more he 
spoke with the utmost frankness to Philip. 

“Nothing can be done for him. It will be only a 
few months at most. I thought you were doing a 


The Passing of a Year 193 

foolish thing, Graham, but you will never regret 
it/’ 

Immediately after her graduation Helen came to 
Harbor Springs. She had secured a place as a music 
teacher in a Detroit school and was to go with her 
cousins to Colorado for a few weeks before begin- 
ning her duties. 

‘‘I felt that I must see you and Philip before I 
went,” she said on the evening of her arrival, as she 
sat by the side of Doctor Mills. 

‘‘I had feared I would never again see you until 
you come over there,” he said feebly. “Yes, I am 
going, going home to God. You and your sainted 
brother wrought a mighty change in my boy’s na- 
ture. Had it not been for that I should never have 
seen the light. It is dim for me, Helen; my years 
of sin cloud it, but it shines.” 

Two days later, when they were sitting on the 
veranda. Doctor Mills told Helen and Philip the 
story of his early life. 

“I am the son of a Massachusetts farmer. There 
were two brothers of us. Rufus was five years older 
than I. When I was twenty-four our parents died. 
By the terms of our father’s will the farm was to go 
to Rufus. The ready money my father had was to 
be mine, and there was enough of it to enable me to 
take the medical course upon which my heart was 
set. Five years later my brother was to pay me one 
thousand dollars. Both Rufus and myself were 
pleased with the terms of the will, and I entered col- 
lege, my heart filled with ambitious hopes.” 


194 Entering Into His Own 

He stopped as if for breath. Philip lifted him 
higher among the cushions of the hammock, and he 
went on. 

‘‘All went well during my student life. I took a 
literary course before commencing the professional 
one. My vacations were spent at the farm, and it 
was during one of these that I first met Hilda Vane. 
She was a country school-teacher and boarded at my 
brother’s home. Rufus was unmarried, but an old 
aunt of ours kept house for him. I loved Hilda 
from the first, but it was months before I dared speak 
of my love. She consented to be my wife when I 
had entered upon the practice of my profession. 
Let me pass lightly over this part of my story. I 
loved her. To me her blue eyes and golden hair 
were the fairest things upon earth. To me she was 
truth and fidelity personified. But there came a day 
when I woke from my dream.” 

Helen laid her hand upon the trembling one of 
the speaker. He smiled at her, then resumed his 
story. 

“I secured my diploma and made arrangements to 
commence practice in a neighboring city. Going 
home, I reached there unexpected. I found Hilda 
and Rufus together on the porch. Before they saw 
me I caught a sentence that fired my blood with sus- 
picion. I forgot honor far enough to listen, and I 
heard their plot in detail. Hilda was my brother’s 
promised wife as well as mine, but he knew of her 
relation to me. They laughed at the way they had 
duped me. On the morrow when I came I was to 


The Passing of a Year 195 

place at her disposal the thousand dollars my brother 
had paid me. Then I was to learn of her love for 
Rufus. It was the money for which they had been 
scheming. I had been led to urge her to take it and 
use it to purchase the things needed for our future 
home. Even then I had the check in my pocket, 
ready to give her.” 

He turned away his face. In that moment John 
Mills lived over again the agony of that summer 
afternoon, then many years in the past. 

“I confronted them,” he continued, his voice un- 
steady. “May God forgive me for the curses I 
called down on their heads. Before leaving I flung 
the check at Hilda^s feet. ‘You sold your soul for 
it,’ I cried, ‘and you shall not lose the price.’ Then 
I rushed away and have never again looked upon 
either of their faces. For a few years I wan- 
dered about, learning to seek temporary oblivion 
in drink. Then I drifted here, and the rest you 
know.” 

“Have you never heard from your brother?” 
Helen asked. 

“Only indirectly. Three years ago both he and 
Hilda were living. They were on the old farm, sur- 
rounded by a family of children, loved and hon- 
ored.” 

A strain of bitterness crept into his voice. Helen 
sighed, and for a time the three sat in silence. At 
last Doctor Mills said : 

“It was you, Helen, who first showed me the mis- 
take I had made. I let disappointment and a blasted 


196 Entering Into His Own 

love spoil my life when I might have risen above 
them. God has forgiven my sins, but even he can- 
not change the record of the past. I hope to enter 
heaven, but no good deeds have preceded me there. 
The life that might have been lived for the glory of 
God has been a misspent one.” 

After a little Helen proposed writing to Rufus 
Mills. The doctor shook his head. 

“Not now. When I am gone let Philip write. 
Tell Rufus, lad, that I ask his forgiveness for all the 
evil thoughts I have cherished of him. And tell him 
to meet me in the blessed land where our father and 
mother are.” 

Helen stayed another day. She boarded with 
Mrs. Perrine, but her waking hours were all spent 
at the doctor’s side. When the invalid slept she and 
Philip talked. 

It was easy to see that Philip’s self-imposed task 
was nearly done. This was so evident that he talked 
with Helen concerning his entering college. Both 
deeply regretted that she would not be there to wel- 
come him. Helen promised to bespeak the thought- 
ful attention of her own friends for the stranger. 

“Then Doctor Fields promised you his friend- 
ship,” she said, a brighter crimson flushing her 
cheek. 

It was a moment before Philip replied. The 
morning was cool but sunny and the two were pac- 
ing back and forth on the beach before the cottage. 
Doctor Mills was sleeping. 

“I have never told you of Doctor Fields’ visit to 


The Passing of a Year 197 

this place,” Philip began, and he gave her a frank 
account of the interview. 

The bloom faded from Helen’s cheek as she 
listened. Her imagination supplied much that Phil- 
ip omitted. She knew that Rex had made Philip ac- 
quainted with all that had passed between Doctor 
Fields and herself, so she spoke without hesitation. 

'‘Should he overlook the past, Philip, beware of 
too close an intimacy with him. You look surprised. 
Ah, I know too well the power of his keen, brilliant 
mind. His skeptical views are known to but few; 
they would cost him his position, but he manages 
to keep his associates away from Christ. He seemed 
to resent my belief. Perhaps because it was the 
thing that stood between us. At heart he is noble, 
but this thing spoils his life. I would give my life 
could he but see his error.” 

There was a rapt look upon the girl’s face as she 
gazed off over the shining water. They had halted 
in the shadow cast by the pine, and the plaintive har- 
mony sung by the breeze in the branches proved a 
fitting accompaniment to Helen’s musings. 

The next day she returned to Chicago. Philip 
went on with his round of simple duties, caring for 
his old friend with the greatest tenderness. 

The doctor lingered until the middle of August. 
His death was peaceful, and with his last breath he 
called down blessings upon the head of the youth, 
who felt that he had paid but a small part of the 
debt he owed the physician. 

Philip saw the doctor buried in the little bluff 


igS Entering Into His Own 

cemetery. Then he arranged his affairs in the vil- 
lage, closed the house, bade his friends farewell, and 
started for Evanston. 

The world lay before him. He was about to enter 
upon the life of study and research which he had 
long desired. He hoped the work of the next few 
years would fit him for the place God meant him to 
occupy, the place he yet had to find. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


Philip's first year at college. 

P hilip passed the entrance examination at the 
Northwestern University with ease. He 
had planned to complete the four-years’ 
course in three years and even hoped to do some 
extra reading upon the subjects he was most inter- 
ested in. So he began by taking all the work al- 
lowed a new student. 

He boarded at one of the many clubs and secured 
rooms at the Dormitory, a large building designed to 
furnish lodgings to male students. The rooms were 
a suite: a study and two chambers. They were 
shared by Floyd Henry, a freshman whose home 
was in North Dakota. 

While Philip understood the need of making his 
little hoard of money go as far as possible, he did 
not deny himself the things he needed. He intended 
doing a big year’s work, and he knew the futility of 
trying it unless in his usual good health. He had 
plenty of money for two years. Then he would 
v/ork. 

Philip was in Evanston several weeks before the 
beginning of the term. The day recitations began 


200 Entering Into His Own 

he met Doctor Fields. The doctor was descending 
the steps of University Hall just as Philip began 
ascending them, and they came face to face. 

Doctor Fields paused and held out his hand. “Ah, 
here you are at last. I am glad to see you. Of course 
you will be in my classes. Can I be of any assist- 
ance to you in making your arrangements?” 

The complete ignoring of the misunderstanding 
of their last meeting surprised Philip. He replied 
that he would need no help. Fields went on talking 
with the old winning smile. 

“I hear you covered yourself with glory in the 
entrance examinations. Now, Graham, I expect 
much of you ; you are to be an honor to the institu- 
tion. Come round to my rooms to-morrow evening 
for a good talk. Here’s my card. Good-by,” and 
he went on, leaving Philip to stare after him in 
amazement. 

“One thing is sure,” was the young man’s conclu- 
sion. “He has laid aside his resentment because I 
would not take his advice. I am glad, for his anger 
hurt me.” 

Philip surprised his instructors by the readiness 
with which he acquired knowledge. A few subjects 
required intense mental application, but the natural 
sciences and literature were mastered by him with 
surprising ease. It was as Rex had once said — 
Philip seemed to grasp those things intuitively. His 
passion for nature, his rare comprehension of her 
secrets, and his sympathetic understanding of her 
moods had seemed to clear his mental vision. Then 


Philip s First Year at College 201 

the wide range of his reading had been a great help 
to him. 

One thing was a never-failing source of wonder 
to Doctor Fields. There was about the young stu- 
dent no trace of the embarrassment or self-con- 
sciousness that might have been expected from his 
solitary life. Although he took little time for social 
recreation he was at home in any society. 

‘‘Of course he learned much from his connection 
with the Abbots,” Doctor Fields thought. “Then 
it is evident that he is of good family, one with 
generations of breeding back of it. But he had 
years of intercourse with untaught persons. There’s 
something more than heredity and the Abbots’ in- 
fluence about the boy, but I cannot determine just 
what it is.” 

Doctor Fields was right; there was something 
more. It was as if Philip’s existence was in perfect 
harmony with nature’s rhythmical laws. Life was 
ecstasy to him. It was not alone his delight in study 
that filled his days with rapture. When the spirit of 
Christ entered Philip Graham’s heart doubt and 
craven fear of life’s changes fled. A simple, child- 
like faith in God’s care, an unwavering trust that 
what was his own in the future would assuredly 
come to him filled his days with perfect peace. 

One evening Philip and his roommate were both 
busy in the study. As the clock struck ten Floyd 
Henry put aside his books and rose. 

“I’ve studied all this sluggish brain of mine is 
capable of for one day. Wish I could go for a ten- 


202 Entering Into His Own 

miles' canter over my native prairies before turning 
in. Eh, Phil! What's this?" 

Philip glanced up. His fellow student stood be- 
hind him, trying to read the writing upon a sheet 
of paper Philip had tacked up over his study table. 

“That? It’s something I came across in one of 
our present-day writers. I might almost call it my 
creed, but I did not have wit enough to put it into 
words for myself. Let me read it for you." 

He read : “No life is successful until it is radiant. 
The King of Glory is always ready to come in. Why 
do we bar the way? We cannot all live in palaces, 
but we can all live in the kingdom of heaven, and the 
material luxuries of the one pale before the glory 
and thrill and exultation of the other." 

A brief silence followed. At last Floyd laid one 
hand upon the other’s shoulder. 

“You are right, old fellow; it is your creed. Is 
that the reason your life is so strangely radiant — 
because the King of Glory has come in ?" 

“Yes.” Philip hesitated a little. “You have heard 
me speak of Rex Abbot, the friend who was so much 
to me. He expressed it in different words, but it 
means the same. Rex called it hhe Christ in you,' 
and he first showed me the beauty and radiance of 
this life.” 

Floyd caught his breath. “And you are showing 
the same to me and to all the world.” 

The year went by uneventfully. Philip made 
many warm friends, for he no longer shut himself 
away from his fellow men. Late in May an in- 


Phili p’s Firs t Year at College 203 

cident occurred which had a bearing upon his future 
life. 

One evening Philip was invited to the home of a 
classmate. The Marchmonts were people of wealth 
and refinement. Several guests from the city were 
present. Philip was introduced to these persons by 
Mrs. Marchmont. As they approached the last, a 
slender, delicate blonde girl, the hostess said pleas- 
antly : 

“Miss Graham, allow me to introduce your name- 
sake, Mr. Graham. Is it possible you two are re- 
lated ? I cannot say you look alike, but I could not 
tell who it was you reminded me of, Mr. Graham, 
until Winnie came yesterday.” 

Miss Graham lifted a sparkling face to Philip. 
“You will pardon me for staring at you, Mr. Gra- 
ham, but I am eager to know how I really do look. 
No, Mrs. Marchmont, I fear I cannot claim Mr. 
Graham as a cousin. While we have lived in Chi- 
cago several years, we came from New York. Is 
this region the home of your father’s family, Mr. 
Graham ?” 

“No. Like your own people, they were from the 
East. My father settled in Michigan before my 
birth, but his father was General William Graham, 
whose home was near Buffalo.” 

Winnie Graham gasped for breath. “What? Say 
that again! My grandfather was General William 
Graham.” 

For a moment the two young people stared at 
each other, and Mrs. Marchmont looked on in be- 


204 Entering Into His Own 

wilderment. It was Philip who first regained his 
composure. He threw back his head proudly. 

“Ah, you must be the daughter of Howard Gra- 
ham, as I am the son of his brother Julian. I am 
sorry I forced myself upon your notice.” 

“I can’t understand!” the girl cried. “Why, you 
are dead! I mean we thought — papa heard — oh! 
tell me all about it!” 

Curious glances were leveled upon them. Mrs. 
Marchmont drew Winnie’s arm through her own. 

“This is surprising. I am going to take you two 
to the library, where you can talk this matter over. 
Later I shall be glad to hear the story. This way, 
Mr. Graham.” 

Philip drew back. His father’s family had re- 
turned the letter his dying mother had written, and 
all the years since the}^ had ignored his existence. 
Stay, this girl had thought him dead. He would 
hear what she had to say. 

Mrs. Marchmont left them alone. Winnie held 
out both hands to her cousin. 

“I am so glad, so glad! How surprised and de- 
lighted papa will be! Now tell me all about your- 
self. Why, I do not know your name! I want to 
know how old you are, where you live and — oh, 
everything !” 

It was impossible to doubt the warmth of her 
greeting. Philip smiled, drew forward a chair for 
her, and began : 

“My name is Philip. I am twenty- two and am a 
freshman at the university here. My home has al- 


Philip’s First Year at College 205 

ways been at Harbor Springs, a little village at the 
head of Lake Michigan. It was at that place that 
my parents’ brief married life was spent, and they 
are buried there.” 

‘‘You are more alone in the world than I am, for 
I have papa. You heard Mrs. Marchmont call me 
Winnie. I am seventeen and live in Chicago. It 
sounds too much like boasting to say that I am an art 
student, so I will say I am trying to be an art 
student.” 

In response to her eager questions Philip told the 
story of his lonely, struggling youth. The girl’s 
eyes grew dim, and she cried : 

“Again I say I do not understand. Let me tell 
you all I know about you, and then you will see it 
was not our fault that you were left to fight your 
way in life alone.” 

She hesitated, as if not knowing just how to begin. 
Philip smiled. 

“Let me help you. I know that my father’s mar- 
riage angered our grandfather. From the time Ju- 
lian Graham left his father’s house there was no 
communication between them. When my mother 
knew she was dying she wrote her husband’s family, 
asking their protection and care for me. The letter 
was returned to her, and there was no word of 
reply.” 

Winnie’s cheeks grew crimson. “Poor grand- 
father ! He repented of his severity. I never heard 
of the letter. My father did not marry until long 
after yours did, and my mother died when I was 


2o6 Entering Into His Own 

born. Papa and I shared grandfather’s home. He 
died eight years ago, when I was nine. For a year 
before he died he was ill and grew to be very child- 
ish. Then he began to talk of your father, and I 
first learned of the trouble and that I had a cousin. 
Grandfather never spoke of you by name, he always 
said ‘poor Julian’s boy.’ He made papa promise to 
find you and share with you the Graham wealth. I 
remember once he said, ‘Tell the boy I am sorry. I 
did love his father.’ ” 

Philip turned away his face. After a little the 
girl’s sweet voice went on. 

“After grandfather’s death papa began to make 
inquiries. I gave him no peace until he did, and I 
used to ask him every day if he had found you. At 
last he told me you were dead. You never knew 
how many tears your little cousin shed over your un- 
timely death,” and she nodded her head, smiles and 
tears contending for the mastery of her face. 

The cousins talked until they were joined by Mrs. 
Marchmont. Then the strange story was retold for 
her benefit. 

“I shall telephone papa early in the morning,” 
Winnie said, as she bade her cousin good-night. 
“He will come to you at once. Have all the 
proofs of your birth ready, for papa is a lawyer and 
will ask lots of questions. I am so glad, Cousin 
Philip!” 

Philip’s brain was in a whirl. He felt unable to 
settle anything for himself. Suddenly he thought of 
Doctor Fields. 


Philip’s First Year at College 207 

“I will go to him and tell him the whole story, 
if it is late. His good sense will steady me.'’ 

He proceeded to the hotel of rooms where the doc- 
tor’s suite of rooms was located. Fields was writ- 
ing, but looked up to greet Philip with a kindly 
smile. 

‘‘What’s wrong, my boy? You look dazed.” 

Philip took the chair to which his friend pointed 
and told the story of his meeting with Winnie Gra- 
ham. Doctor Fields listened intently, interrupting 
now and then to ask a pertinent question. 

“You are to be congratulated,” was his final com- 
ment. “I know Howard Graham well. He is im- 
mensely rich, a thorough-going business man with 
the reputation of being a hard-hearted schemer. I 
doubt the story of his search for you; Howard Gra- 
ham is not the man to go about seeking some one 
with whom he could share his thousands.” 

“I don’t want his money.” 

“Of course you don’t. However, should a part 
of the wealth he holds chance to be yours that would 
be another story. Have you any papers proving 
your birth, and are they here?” 

“I have a good deal of my father’s correspon- 
dence, pictures of his family, the certificate of my 
parents’ marriage, and the record of my own birth. 
The most important of these papers are in my desk 
at the rooms.” 

“Humph !” Doctor Fields crossed the room twice 
before he asked, “Is this returned letter among the 
papers ?” 


2o8 Entering Into His Own 
think so.” 

Jerome Fields took his hat. “Fll go round to 
your rooms with you, Graham. We can soon learn 
whether Howard Graham will come to you as a 
friend or a foe.” 

As soon as they reached Philip’s rooms he pro- 
duced the papers. Doctor Fields went over them 
carefully. There were several letters from Howard 
Graham, all written before the trouble. In these the 
elder brother reproved the younger for what he 
called ‘‘your foolish day-dreaming and verse-scrib- 
bling.” 

Doctor Fields handed Philip one of these let- 
ters, also the envelope containing Mrs. Graham’s 
returned letter. 

“You see who returned this. I am positive that 
your grandfather never heard of it.” 

The handwriting was the same. There had been 
no effort made to disguise it. Philip laid down the 
letters, sick at heart. 

“I shall not look for a visit from this uncle of 
mine.” 

“He will come. Be a little careful how you 
commit yourself. Do not let any of these pa- 
pers pass from your possession. Now, Phil, go 
to bed; you will need to be clear-headed to-mor- 
row.” 

Philip went to bed, but not to sleep. For hours 
he tossed restlessly, too excited to close his eyes. 
It was not the Graham wealth of which he thought. 
Winnie’s sweet face rose up before him, and he 


Philip’s First Year at College 209 

remembered how void his life had been of the sympa- 
thetic interests of kinship. 

‘'Winnie would be glad to be my friend,” he said 
again and again. “My uncle may keep the money, 
but I hope he will not refuse to let me know my 
cousin.” 

Neither did Winnie Graham sleep well that night. 
Before morning she had resolved to go to her father. 
She took an early car and reached the elegant, three- 
story brick house just as her father sat down to 
breakfast. 

Howard Graham was a short, heavily-built man. 
He had a florid face, light blue eyes, and a straw- 
colored mustache. His head was bald, and his usual 
expression was a cold, hard one. 

His face brightened at the sight of Winnie, for 
his only daughter was very dear to him. The girl 
began to tell her story as soon as she was within the 
room. 

Mr. Graham had himself well in hand. He was 
surprised, but Winnie had expected that. She did 
not know that under the concealing mustache his 
lips fell into hard, cruel lines. 

“You are the dupe of a clever impostor,” he 
said a little impatiently. “Come, child, sit down and 
let us have breakfast. Everything will be cold.” 

“O papa, Philip is no impostor! Mrs. March- 
mont saw a resemblance between us two before she 
dreamed of our relationship. You and I will go and 
see him this afternoon and bring him back with us. 
He shall live here.” 


210 Entering Into His Own 

Mr. Graham frowned and pushed away the dish 
of strawberries before him. “Winnie, you are too 
impulsive. Even if this youth should prove to be 
the son of my brother, that is no reason why we 
should take him into our home. He may not be 
even a gentleman.'' 

Winnie Graham's blue eyes met and held those 
of her father. “Papa, you forget. Did I not tell 
you that Philip is very poor? He has earned part 
of the money for his education." 

“Well, I am not responsible for that. His father 
chose poverty." 

“What do you mean, papa? You are teasing me. 
I remember so well grandfather’s bidding you find 
‘Julian’s boy,' as he called Philip, and he said you 
were to share the Graham wealth with him. I told 
Philip all about it." 

“You told him all about it! I wish — " 

Howard Graham checked the angry words upon 
his lips. What had his daughter done? Had she 
endangered the inheritance it was the aim of his life 
to enlarge for her? Well, he would make the best 
of this bad business. Surely he would prove a match 
for two children. 

“Eat your breakfast, child," he said carelessly. 
“I will take you to see this wonderful new cousin 
this afternoon.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A CHANGE IN PHILIP's LiPE 

W HEN Philip reached his room after classes 
that afternoon he found his uncle and 
cousin already there. They were in the 
study and were being entertained by Floyd. The 
young man had been describing the great wheat 
fields of his native State. As Philip entered he heard 
Winnie exclaim : 

“What a picture it must make — that expanse of 
waving, gleaming golden wheat! Papa, you must 
take me there some day, and I will paint — 

She broke off abruptly and sprang forward to 
meet Philip, her face aglow with pleasure. 

“Dear cousin ! This is my father and your 
uncle.'' 

Howard Graham rose with a stiff bow, but the 
sight of that serene face with its visionary blue eyes 
smote him like the sight of one risen from the dead. 
He started back, something strangely like fear de- 
picted upon his own face. Winnie understood and 
turned to her cousin. 

“I did not tell him how much you resembled 
Uncle Julian's portrait. We are so glad we have 
found you!" 

The proud lawyer soon rallied. He greeted 


2i2 Entering Into His Own 

Philip coldly, even casting a slight doubt upon the 
relationship existing between them. Philip pro- 
duced the papers, and Mr. Graham yielded the point 
with apparent indifference. 

Winnie’s cordiality contrasted strikingly with her 
father’s coldness. Ere they rose to go she said : 

“To-morrow is Friday, Philip. You must come 
and stay with us until Monday. Now do not shake 
your head. Papa, tell him he must come.” 

Philip noted the coldness of his uncle’s invitation 
and longed to decline. The sight of Winnie’s eager, 
expectant face forced a reluctant consent from him- 
Winnie cried : 

“Why, Philip, you don’t seem to understand that 
our home is your home. Grandfather said we were 
to share with you, and there is plenty. Some day 
you are to bring your friend,” with a smile for 
Floyd, “and he shall finish telling me all about his 
home.” 

The eyes of uncle and nephew met. Philip saw 
that the reference to sharing struck home. The 
younger man threw back his head. This hospitality 
that was so grudgingly offered him was his right, 
and he would accept it as such. 

Philip’s visit to the Graham home was a pleasant 
one, notwithstanding the coolness of the master of 
the house. Winnie was overjoyed because he was 
there. In that short time Philip came to see the 
young girl’s sweetness and purity of character. She 
had something of his own sensitive, beauty-loving 
nature. 


A Change in Philip’s Life 213 

Winnie exacted a promise from her cousin that 
his visit should be repeated the following week. Be- 
fore that time a change had been wrought in How- 
and Graham’s demeanor toward his nephew. To 
Philip’s surprise he found his uncle affable, and he 
was treated much as if he was indeed a member of 
the household. 

This change had its origin in a meeting between 
the lawyer and Doctor Fields. Seeing Mr. Graham 
on a car one day, Fields joined him and began at 
once to speak of Philip. 

“Your nephew is a rarely-gifted youth. I am 
very glad to know that this change in his fortune 
will enable him to complete his college course with- 
out further thought as to ways and means.” 

Mr. Graham stared at the speaker. “You are 
laboring under a mistake. Doctor Fields. Philip’s 
father was disinherited.” 

“Ah ! Did your father leave a will to that effect? 
Philip has had no time to learn the details, but I 
shall see that he becomes thoroughly acquainted 
with the legal features of the case. Pardon me if 
I say that it seems unjust that no provision was 
made for the boy’s education.” 

Howard Graham saw that the danger before him 
was a tangible one. It lay not so much in Philip 
as in Philip’s friend. Well, he would make a con- 
cession. A few thousands mattered little. 

“You misjudge me. Doctor Fields. While Philip 
has no legal claim upon me I stand ready to help 
him. During his college life I will make him a 


214 Entering Into His Own 

fair allowance. What I do for him afterward will 
depend upon what he does for himself. Ah, here 
is my corner.’^ 

Doctor Fields looked after the lawyer, a slow 
smile hidden by his blonde beard. 

“You are a scoundrel, Howard Graham. I intend 
to see that you are just to Philip.’' 

During Philip’s second visit to his relatives Mr, 
Graham said to him: 

“Winnie and I are to visit the Atlantic coast this 
summer, Phil. You are to go with us as our guest. 
And I’ve made arrangements at the First National 
Bank for an allowance to be paid you monthly.” 

Philip opened his lips to refuse this last, but How- 
ard Graham waved his hand airily. 

“Not a word, my boy. Winnie told you of my 
father’s words, but they were spoken when he was 
in his dotage, utterly unable to do business. Hot as 
his anger was against your father I am sure he 
would have been willing to aid you in obtaining an 
education, always providing you avoid the silly folly 
of your father. The allowance is not a large one, 
but perhaps you will find it sufficient.” 

This speech had a very difiFerent effect upon 
Philip than his uncle expected it to have. The youth 
fixed and held the other’s gaze. The eyes, accus- 
tomed to the frank openness of nature, read aright 
the man before him. 

“He is not giving me this; it is mine, and was 
my father’s. I will accept it as my right.” 

When he visited the bank he found that his 


A Change in Philip’s Life 215 

monthly allowance was one hundred dollars. To 
Philip the sum seemed wealth. 

Philip went with his uncle and cousin to the sea- 
shore. They visited many places of interest, and 
the young man’s first view of the ocean was so keen 
a pleasure that it was almost pain. He accompanied 
Winnie to the art galleries in the cities through 
which they passed and learned many a lesson from 
his artist cousin. 

Helen was not forgotten. Philip received long 
letters from her. She was spending her vacation 
traveling through Canada with a party of friends. 
Helen had been very successful in her work as a 
music teacher. Her delight was great when she 
learned how Philip had found his relatives. 

The beginning of the college year saw Philip back 
at Evanston. He had been plainly told by his uncle 
that he was expected to live in a style befitting the 
family, so he secured a suite of rooms in a private 
house and took his meals at an excellent boarding- 
house. 

Philip did not allow this new arrangement to 
separate him from Floyd. While this young man’s 
parents were able to educate him, they were not 
wealthy. Philip invited Floyd to share his new 
rooms, taking from him in payment only the sum 
that the rooms in the Dormitory had cost. Floyd 
was a fine student and was taking a classical course, 
intending to fit himself for a position as teacher of 
languages. 

Philip Graham was a prime favorite with his in- 


2 i 6 Entering Into His Own 

structors and also with his fellow students. He was 
looked upon as one of the most promising young 
men in the university. A great amount of work 
was done by him, and it was well done. Literature 
and the natural sciences were his favorite pursuits, 
but he entered upon the study of languages with 
avidity, thinking that each one mastered would 
open new fields of research for him. 

Nature was still an absorbing passion with 
Philip. He often found himself longing for the 
old, free days upon the water and in the woods. No 
matter how busy with study he always spent one 
hour of each twenty-four under the open sky. 

The advice of Doctor Fields was not forgotten, 
although sometimes it was disregarded. Philip 
must write, and occasionally there came from his 
pen a bit of verse that breathed the spirit of the out- 
door world. 

The thoughts of Philip were not all of self. 
That night’s vigil on the shores of Harbor Point 
had changed his view of existence. In those hours 
he had become the follower of One whose life of 
self-effacement and good works had been crowned 
by a death for the world’s redemption. 

“If I could only really carry on the work of Rex,” 
he used sometimes to say to himself. 

“There are diversities of gifts.” It had not been 
given unto Philip to preach as Rex had preached, 
but it had been given unto him to show in his inter- 
course with others that Christ dwelt in his heart. 

Philip was a power for good among his fellow 


A Change in Philip’s Life 217 

students. His time, money, talents — all were freely 
given to inspire and make better the lives of his 
young associates. It was a happy, hopeful spirit 
that animated him. Life was a precious gift from 
God, and it must be made the most of. 

Winnie helped him in his work. She made him 
feel free to bring into her beautiful home any stu- 
dent whom he thought might be benefited thereby. 
Floyd was a frequent visitor at the Graham man- 
sion. Winnie’s father laughed at her taste for what 
he called “pauper youths,” but he made no objection 
to her doing as she pleased. 

The second year of Philip’s life at college sped 
by. Both he and Floyd would finish in one year 
more. Helen came to her alma mater for the com- 
mencement. While she was the guest of her cousins 
in Chicago, she spent many hours with Philip, and 
Winnie had the pleasure of entertaining her cousin’s 
friend. 

“One year more here, Philip. What then ?” Helen 
asked, as she and Philip sat in the Graham parlor 
one twilight hour. 

“What then? The world and my share of its 
work. Even now I have not decided just what I am 
to do. Doctor Fields thinks me competent to secure 
a place as instructor in botany or zoology, and I 
think I should like it. In connection with such work 
I could carry on my own studies until I had secured 
a master’s degree. You understand my love for my 
pen. I have thought of preparing a work upon the 
aquatic plants and animals of our Great Lakes. 


2i8 Entering Into His Own 

Again, if Uncle Howard continues my allowance, 
I am not sure but I will go abroad for a year’s study 
before I settle down to anything.” 

He had risen while he was talking and was pacing 
back and forth with a springing tread. Helen 
smiled up at him through the fast-gathering dark- 
ness. 

“I am glad to see, Philip, that there is never a 
doubt in your mind but that you will find your right- 
ful place in the world. You have lost your old fear 
of failure?” 

“In a way, yes. Failure may come for a time, 
but God is leading me, and the way in which he leads 
me will assuredly lead to my life’s work. Of late, 
Helen, the way has led through sunny, fertile plains, 
but if the desert and the mountain passes stretch 
beyond, I — well, I am sure that he will lead me. Ah, 
here is Winnie.” 

That summer Philip went to his old home. The 
cottage had been cared for. Philip opened it and 
for a month lived there as in the days of old. He 
greeted his friends and visited his favorite haunts 
both along the shore and in the woods. At the end 
of the month he was joined by his uncle and Winnie. 
Mr. Graham would not consent to stay at the cot- 
tage, but took rooms for his daughter and himself 
at a hotel. 

Early autumn took the Grahams back to Chicago. 
The lawyer devoted himself to his practice and to 
his business interests, while Winnie kept up her art 
studies. Her father had promised that another year 



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A Change in Philip’s Life 219 

she should go abroad. Philip was hard at work, and 
life moved on placidly for them all. 

The passage of time only strengthened the friend- 
ship existing between Doctor Fields and Philip. 
Helen’s warning had not been needed. The younger 
man felt to the uttermost the charm of the elder’s 
brilliancy, but there seemed no danger of Philip’s 
faith being tainted by the other’s skepticism. The 
subject was rarely mentioned between them, al- 
though Philip never ceased to hope for the coming 
of the day when Jerome Fields’ eyes should be 
opened. 

“How can you be the naturalist and the student 
you are and not see God in his creations?” Philip 
asked suddenly, one evening when the doctor had 
been discoursing at length upon some new dis- 
covery. 

Doctor Fields shrugged his shoulders. “I see 
the great principle of life, the mystery of growth 
and development as well as you do. But to me 
there is no connection between this and your con- 
ception of this power as an active, personal force in 
man’s life.” 

“Fields, I wish you could have seen Rex Abbot 
die. Christ was a reality in that soul-searching 
hour.” 

“The delusion seemed a reality, because of the 
emotional, martyr-like spirit of Rex. Do I not 
know how men have died for this delusion? Dying 
for a principle is easier than living for it. Now 
for yourself. Philip, you bore your attendance upon 


220 Entering Into His Own 

that old doctor well, but it was brief, and you were 
very young. Now you have tasted life’s sweets, and 
it would not be easy for you to go back to those days. 
Your idea of religion is all very well for a fanatic 
like Rex or for you in your hours of poetic dream- 
ing, but life’s trials will show you the falsity of your 
reasoning.” 

Philip confronted the speaker, his face a little 
paler than its wont. “What then? Upon what are 
you resting?” 

Jerome Fields’ lips fell into hard lines. “There 
is little save work and present enjoyment. It is a 
man’s duty to himself to lead an upright life and 
to do his part well. The outlook is dreary, but I 
try to forget it.” 

“There is your error. Helen Abbot is not trying 
to iforget. She is trying to let the sorrow you 
brought into her life chasten and make pure her 
soul. I pity you.” 

Doctor Fields did not reply. After a time Philip 
spoke of some other matter. 

Howard Graham had continued to treat his 
nephew with marked kindness. This increased as 
the time for Philip’s graduation drew near. The 
lawyer had not become attached to his brother’s 
child; he loved only his daughter and his money. 
Time would tell which of the two was the dearer to 
him. 

Philip represented a danger to the proud, unscru- 
pulous man. He saw one way out. At first he 
angrily refused to consider it, but, as time went by, 


A Change in Philip’s Life 221 

he came to see it would be a sure way. So, without 
consulting his daughter or his nephew, Howard 
Graham settled their future. 

A week before commencement Philip spent the 
night at his uncle’s home. After breakfast the two 
men walked down to take a car. 

“Just a few days more, and it’s over, Phil,” Mr. 
Graham said with a laugh. “I was talking with 
Professor Carveth yesterday, and he gave me to 
understand that you were not only a credit to me but 
to the college as well.” 

Philip smiled. “That was very kind in Professor 
Carveth.” 

“Yes. Now, Phil, it’s time the question of your 
future was definitely settled. I intended talking to 
you about it last night, but there was no getting rid 
of Winnie. I’ll come out to Evanston this evening 
and tell you what I’ve planned.” 

Philip attempted to speak, but his uncle went on. 

“While you’ve no claim upon me, Phil, I stand 
ready to make a great sacrifice for you. You will 
be surprised when you learn what your future is to 
be. I’ll be on hand at eight. Good-by.” 

Mr. Graham hurried off. Philip had to wait for 
another car. His mind was ill at ease. What was 
this plan of his uncle’s? Philip had never thought 
of the question of his future being settled by any 
person but himself. 


CHAPTER XX. 


TROUBLE. 

W HEN Philip reached his apartments he 
found his roommate there. Floyd sprang 
up from the table where he was seated 
and began to dance round the room, dragging Phil- 
ip with him. 

“Hurrah! I’ve won! Hurrah!” 

“Hurrah!” Philip echoed. “I haven’t the least 
idea what it’s about, but after three years’ com- 
panionship there shall be no discord. Hurrah !” 

Floyd came to a sudden stop. “Phil, you are the 
best fellow in the world. You know I applied for 
a position as assistant instructor in languages in the 
university of my own State. Well, the position is 
mine.” 

It was Philip’s turn to manifest delight. He re- 
sumed the dance and the cheering. 

“It’s prime good fortune, but you are worthy of 
it, Floyd. I am as glad as you are.” 

“Not quite,” and Floyd’s dark face glowed with a 
new light. “There’s something more in this than 
you know. Winnie and I agreed if I secured this 
position that I was to speak to her father at 
once.” 


Trouble 


223 

Philip turned quickly. “Winnie! What do you 
mean 7 ” 

“That we love each other. I’ve wondered, Phil, 
that you never guessed it. There is nothing stands 
between us but her father’s wealth. My poverty 
does not count, not with us. Phil, will Mr. Graham 
give her to me?” 

It was not easy for Philip to answer that question, 
especially when he was looking in his friend’s happy 
face. Did his uncle love Winnie better than he 
loved wealth? 

“Uncle Howard is ambitious and proud of Win- 
nie,” he said, “but he loves her dearly. You know, 
Floyd, she has always been accustomed to wealth.” 

“But she says she would rather have love.” 
Floyd’s eyes did not lose their sunny smile. “I 
think I’ve told you I had two thousand left me by an 
uncle. That will set us up in a cozy little home, and 
my salary will keep us nicely. I’ll talk it over with 
Winnie this evening. I say, Phil, you are not sor- 
ry, are you? I know I’m not worthy of her, but 
I’ll give my life to make her happy.” 

Philip took his friend’s hand. “Floyd, Winnie 
is a sweet girl, and I love her as a sister. I am glad 
that I can say I believe you are worthy of her.” 

“God knows I will try to be,” Floyd said in a 
reverent tone, and the two young men bowed their 
heads as if in witness of the vow made. 

That evening Mr. Graham entered his nephew’s 
study at the appointed hour. He glanced round as 
he took the chair Philip drew forward for him. 


224 Entering Into His Own 

The room was tastily furnished, books were every- 
where, and a stand held a vase filled with tall stalks 
of vivid blue larkspur blossoms. 

“Cozy here, Phil, but there are better things ahead 
of you. Now let me tell you my plan.” 

He smoked steadily for two minutes. Philip 
waited for him to speak. The lawyer’s impassive 
face gave no hint of the nature of the communica- 
tion he was about to make. At last he took the cigar 
from between his lips. 

“Phil, you haven’t the shadow of a claim on me, 
but I’m interested in you. You and Winnie shall 
be married in the fall and go abroad for six months. 
Then you are to come home and settle down to the 
law. With your brains and the training you’ve had 
you can do the work of the three-years course at the 
university in two years. Then you can come into 
my office, and I will know my property will be 
looked after. What do you say?” 

Philip gasped for breath. What could he say to 
such a proposition ? He loved Winnie but only as a 
brother, while her heart was given to another. 
Then, had there been no mention of the girl’s name, 
the question of his studying law would have settled 
the matter. His plans for the future, vague as they 
were, could not be overthrown so ruthlessly. 

Mr. Graham laughed a little uneasily. “I don’t 
wonder that you are overwhelmed with surprise and 
gratitude. Not many young men step into what you 
are about to.” 

Philip found his voice. He threw back his head 


Trouble 


225 

with the old fearless gesture. There was but one 
course for him to take, let the consequences be what 
they might. 

'T am surprised. Have you spoken to Winnie of 
this?’^ 

''No. Time enough for that. She likes you, and 
a girl is always willing to marry.” 

"Winnie and I love each other, but only as brother 
and sister. I would consider it an insult to ask her 
to marry me, feeling as I do. Her heart may be 
given to another.” 

"Don’t be a fool, Phil.” Opposition was already 
rousing the lawyer’s anger. "You make me think 
of your father with your foolish prating about love. 
You and Winnie are to marry, and you are to study 
law. That is all there is about it.” 

He had gone too far. Philip rose, his face calm 
but determined. When he spoke his voice was lower 
than usual. 

"Uncle Howard, what you propose cannot be. 
Winnie would refuse should I ask her hand, and I 
cannot ask it. It is useless to talk of my studying 
law, for I do not wish to do it.” 

The lawyer was upon his feet. His florid face 
grew redder, and his voice was loud and angry. 

"It makes no difference what you wish. You will 
do as I say, or not one dollar more of my money 
will you touch. Do you hear that ?” 

"Perfectly well. I am not to be bought. If the 
money for my education has been your gift, I am 
grateful to you. I have taken it as my right, as a 


226 Entering Into His Own 

small portion of what my father’s father desired me 
to have.” 

'‘You lie!” Howard Graham was choking with 
rage. 

Philip steadily met his uncle’s gaze. “Uncle 
Howard, why do you want me to marry Winnie? 
Is it because you fear otherwise I will claim some 
portion of the Graham property?” 

That last question raised Howard Graham’s anger 
to fever heat. He strode up and down the room, 
swearing. At last he cried : 

“Little good it would do you to claim it! The 
money is mine, and you are a beggar’s brat, as your 
father was before you.” 

“My father was your father’s son. It may sur- 
prise you to learn that I know all about the settle- 
ment of my grandfather’s estate. There was no will, 
but you swore you were the dead man’s sole living 
heir. You proved it by producing a record of my 
father’s death, also one of my own. That last was 
a — forgery.” 

He halted an instant before the last word. The 
face of the elder man grew ashen. By a mighty ef- 
fort he controlled himself. 

“That is an ugly word, and it would trouble you 
to prove its truth. There is no use of our quarrel- 
ing, Phil. You do not realize what you are refusing. 
With wealth and influence a man can do anything. 
Take time to think it over.” 

“That would be useless. Once for all I re- 
fuse.” 


Trouble 


227 

‘To you mean that? Will you throw aside all 
hope of a successful future for a whim 

Philip started. A successful future. That was 
what he expected, what he was looking forward to 
as his own. Surely the way to it did not lead 
through falsehood and dishonor. 

“I cannot do your bidding,” was his calm reply, 
“You have no right to attempt to shape my life 
and—” 

An oath interrupted him. “You fool! Pll have 
no more to do with you. You can’t prove the truth 
of your charges against me, and you cannot fight me 
in the courts without money. I’ll spend all my 
wealth defeating you rather than have it pass into 
your hands. Never again dare put your foot in my 
house. I hope you’ll starve,” and the infuriated man 
strode out of the room and down the stairs. 

Philip tried to think calmly. He forgot his own 
changed prospects in fears for Winnie and Floyd. 
Would this mean the overthrow of their hopes? 
How could he tell Floyd? He must see Winnie, 
but his uncle had forbidden him the house. 

“I will see if I can get her by ’phone,” was his 
conclusion. 

After some delay Winnie’s soft voice called : 

“Hello!” 

“It is Philip, Winnie. I am sorry to have to tell 
you that I have angered your father. In the morn- 
ing I must see you. Has Floyd gone?” 

“Yes, a half hour ago.” 

“Will you meet him and me in the park near your 


228 Entering Into His Own 

home at nine to-morrow? It is a matter of im- 
portance.” 

“Certainly I will. I am sorry about the trouble. 
Can I do any good by talking to papa?” 

“No, Winnie. Please do not tell him I called you 
up, and go to bed before he reaches home. Good- 
by " 

Philip waited until morning to tell Floyd of his 
interview with Mr. Graham. At the same time he 
spoke of the appointment he had made with Winnie. 

Floyd hastened to express his sympathy for his 
friend. Regarding his own prospects the young 
man was sanguine. 

“I shall see Mr. Graham at once,” he announced. 
“While I cannot believe he will be so cruel as to 
refuse to let Winnie follow the dictates of her own 
heart, it will make no difference if he does. He may 
delay our marriage, but he cannot change our love. 
Philip, you are my true friend.” 

The young men reached the park first. They 
waited Winnie’s coming at the gate. The sky 
arched overhead, blue and cloudless. The air was 
heavy with the perfume of a bed of blossoming 
roses near, and the park spread out before them — 
an expanse of softest emerald flecked with sunshine 
and the shadows cast by the tall trees. 

Philip’s heart grew lighter, and a rapt look came 
to his face. Ah, life was beauty! Why should he 
give the future an anxious thought? It was all a 
part of God’s great plan. 

An exclamation from Floyd roused the dreamer. 


T rouble 


229 

Winnie was coming, and her lover hastened for- 
ward to meet her. 

“No, I did not see papa this morning,’' she said 
in reply to Philip’s question. “He left the house 
very early. Now let us go over to that seat under 
the trees, and you can tell me about the trouble 
between you and papa.” 

They sat down, Winnie between the two young 
men. Philip told of the interview between Mr. Gra- 
ham and himself. The only thing he omitted was 
the matter of the property. 

Winnie’s childlike face flushed a rosy red and 
then grew very pale. Tears sprang into her eyes. 

“How could he? Why, Philip, you are my 
cousin, almost my brother! And to offer me to 
you in that shameless manner ! It would have been 
dreadful, even had there been no Floyd,” and she 
turned confidingly to her lover. 

It took them a long time to arrive at any decision. 
Winnie could not believe that her father would re- 
tain his anger. She was confident that Philip’s al- 
lowance would be continued. 

“Philip, the money is really as much yours as 
ours. I am sure grandfather meant it so.” 

It was arranged that Floyd should see Mr. Gra- 
ham that very afternoon. He would go to the law- 
yer’s office, then at once to the house to tell Winnie 
the result of the interview. 

“Then I’ll report to you at our rooms before 
dinner.” This to Philip. “If he says no, Winnie, 
what then?” 


230 Entering Into His Own 

The girl blushed and looked away. It was not 
easy to answer that question, especially in the pres- 
ence of her cousin. She said: 

“We must be patient, Floyd. We love each other; 
neither time nor distance can change that.” 

“When will I see you again, Winnie?” Philip 
asked, as he held his cousin’s hand at parting. “You 
know I am not to come to the house.” 

“O Philip, I do not believe papa will enforce that 
command! I shall have a talk with him this even- 
ing. He has never denied me anything. At all 
events I will see you in a few days. I love my 
father, but even he must not bid me do what I be- 
lieve to be wrong. We must keep up courage; all 
will yet come right,” and, bravely fighting back her 
tears, she bade the two young men good-by. 

Philip found it difficult to set himself at any men- 
tal labor that day. He feared the result of Floyd’s 
interview with Howard Graham. Did the proud 
lawyer love his daughter as well as he loved his 
gold ? 

At last he heard Floyd’s step ascending the stairs. 
It came slowly. The door opened, and Philip 
needed no words; the young man’s failure was 
written upon his face. 

Philip held out his hand. “I am afraid my uncle 
refused your plea.” 

“You are putting it too mildly. Your uncle raved 
and swore, he called me an upstart and Winnie a 
love-sick fool, he forbade me ever to enter his house. 
He even went so far as to say I should never see 


Trouble 


231 

Winnie, but I told him that was nonsense, that one 
day I should make her my wife, with his consent or 
without it” 

“You do not lack courage, Floyd. What did 
Uncle Howard say to that?” 

Floyd compressed his lips. “Phil, what he said 
was harder to bear than all else. He accused me 
of being mercenary, said I was seeking money in- 
stead of Winnie. I told him I did not want his 
money, but he raved on. Phil, I fear this increased 
Mr. Graham’s anger against you, for he declared 
it was your work.” 

“Do not let that thought trouble you. The only 
thing that could span the breach between Uncle 
Howard and myself would be my yielding to him. 
That I can never do, it would be a deliberate wrong. 
But what of Winnie? How did she take this? You 
went to her?” 

The countenance of Floyd lighted up. “Yes, I 
went. For once I disregarded her father’s com- 
mand. Phil, there was never a girl like her. She 
was hurt and disappointed. Still she was brave, 
braver than I at first. She will be as true as truth 
itself. In two years she will be of age, and then she 
says she will marry me without her father’s con- 
sent if he will not give it. She is to meet me at 
Mrs. Marchmont’s to-morrow evening and tell me 
what her father says to her. Poor girl! You do 
not think he will be brute enough to speak harshly 
to her, do you?” 

“He may speak harshly, but that will be all. 


232 Entering Into His Own 

Uncle Howard really loves Winnie. I am sure he 
will not cherish resentment against her, no matter 
how angry he may be at you and me.” 

The next day Philip resolved to seek Doctor 
Fields and tell him the whole story. He found his 
friend very busy, so made an appointment to break- 
fast with him the following morning at a hotel 
where they could have a room to themselves. 

The day went by slowly. Upon going up to his 
room just before dinner Philip found two letters 
upon the table. Evidently they had been brought by 
a messenger, as they bore neither stamp nor post- 
mark. One was addressed to himself, the other to 
Floyd, and both addresses were in Winnie's hand- 
writing. 

Philip was aware of a sudden feeling of dismay. 
Was some fresh trouble coming? He tore open the 
envelope upon which his name was inscribed. The 
letter ran: 

June 12. 

Dear Cousin: Soon after Floyd left me last night papa 
came. He sent at once for me to join him in the library. 

0 Philip, I can never forget his awful, unreasoning anger! 
He told me what you had spared me — the disposition of 
our grandfather’s property. There was a mistake — I cannot 
think my father knew you were living. After abusing you 
he began upon Floyd, and it seemed as if he was insane. 

1 said little, only to tell him that I would always be true 
to the man to whom I had pledged my troth, and that I 
should always be your friend. He ended by ordering me 
to my room, forbidding me to quit the house. This morn- 
ing my maid was packing my trunks when I rose. I do not 
know where we are going, but papa, the maid, and I leave 


Trouble 


233 

Chicago at two this afternoon. John, the coachman, has 
promised to take this letter to you. 

Philip, I do not know when I will see you again. God 
bless and keep you! You are very dear to me, and some 
day we shall meet again. If I only knew where you would 
go or what you would do 1 But I have perfect confidence 
in you. You will do right and win success. 

Yours with love, 

Winnie. 


CHAPTER XXL 


A BROKEN ERIENDSHIP. 

P hilip had only just finished reading Win- 
nie’s letter when Floyd entered the room. 
“What’s wrong?” the new-comer asked, 
when he saw his friend’s face. 

Philip briefly told the news contained in Winnie’s 
letter. At the same time he placed in Floyd’s hands 
the envelope upon which his own name was in- 
scribed. 

Floyd’s grief and consternation were great. It 
was some time before he could talk coolly. He had 
never thought of Mr. Graham taking such sudden 
and severe measures to separate him from Winnie. 
His letter contained little more than Philip’s, ex- 
cepting repeated vows of constancy and a promise to 
write whenever a letter could be mailed. 

The two young men saw that there was nothing 
to be done save to wait. Floyd set his lips firmly 
together, while his boyish face grew stern and de- 
termined. 

“If Mr. Graham could see the uselessness of it 
all ! Winnie will never give me up. She will obey 
her father as far as it is right for her to do so. That 
is all she will yield to him.” 


A Broken Friendship 235 

Philip leaned forward. “Floyd, there is some- 
thing I had forgotten, and apparently Winnie has 
not thought of it. If she becomes your wife when 
she is of age she will not come to you penniless. 
Her mother left her fifty thousand dollars, and it 
becomes absolutely hers the day she is twenty-one. 
It is in the hands of trustees, her father having noth- 
ing to do with it.'’ 

Floyd manifested little interest. “I care nothing 
for that. While I cannot give Winnie the ease and 
luxury by which she has always been surrounded, 
I can give her a comfortable home, and she will be 
satisfied." 

Little sleep came to Philip Graham that night. It 
had become necessary for him to reach some definite 
decision regarding his near future. He had planned 
to go with Floyd on a trip through the West, but, 
now that his allowance had been stopped, he felt 
that it would not be wise to incur the expense. 
Philip had not been extravagant in his expenditures, 
and he had never touched the little sum he had 
had when he first met his uncle. Besides this he 
had several hundred dollars saved from his allow- 
ance. 

“Enough for my present needs," he thought. “I 
must get to work, but I will talk over the plan in my 
mind with Fields before deciding upon it." 

The next morning the two friends met as agreed. 
No sooner were they seated at the table than Doctor 
Fields asked: 

“What is wrong, Graham ? It’s not that you look 


236 Entering Into His Own 

worried — nothing ever mars that strangely serene 
expression of yours, but you look grave/’ 

'That is just what I want to tell you. It is a 
long story, and I want you to let me go straight 
through. When you have heard all I want not only 
your opinion but also your advice.” 

“Hew! That sounds solemn,” Doctor Fields 
looked up from his orange to say. “I am ready to 
listen.” 

Philip told the whole story. The love of Floyd 
and Winnie, his own interview with his uncle and 
his refusal to comply with the other’s demands, 
Floyd’s call upon Mr. Graham, and, last of all, 
Winnie’s letter and the news it contained — all of 
these he narrated at length. 

Jerome Fields listened in the promised silence. 
His eyes studied Philip as he talked. Gradually a 
look of disapproval and coldness settled upon the 
face of the older man. 

“Is that all?” he asked as Philip paused. 

“Yes, I think so. Now you will understand that 
this changes my prospects, and I want your honest 
advice about a plan I have in mind.” 

“Wait a moment. Before you burden me with 
anything more, pray allow me to express my opinion 
on what I have already heard.” 

“Certainly.” Philip was puzzled by his compan- 
ion’s tone. “Of course my uncle’s anger is to be 
deplored, but it could not have been avoided.” 

“Philip Graham, you are a fool! Nay, do not 
interrupt me. I let you go on, and now it is my 


A Broken Friendship 237 

turn. I say you are a fool to deliberately throw 
away your chances for study and advancement. 
These chances are your only hope to win success 
in the world. You are gifted, but your gifts need 
the advantages that money alone can procure. They 
need these things to ripen them and bring them to 
their fullest perfection. You are too much of a 
dreamer to ever carve out a success for yourself.” 

The color faded from Philip’s face. He was not 
angry, but he was hurt and mystified. 

‘‘ ‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend.’ I hope 
you are mistaken. Fields. Even should time prove 
you to be right, there was no course open to me but 
the one I took.” 

“No course! Could you not have temporized a 
little ? I will not say you should have married your 
cousin; that would have been an unmanly thing to 
have done. But why did you refuse? You knew 
of her attachment to Henry, and that would have 
saved you without angering your uncle. You would 
have had the study abroad. As to promising to 
study law — well, what harm would the promise 
have done? You could have been careful not to 
have acquired much knowledge and had time for 
your other work.” 

Philip stared blankly at him. “I do not see just 
what you mean. To have given my uncle the im- 
pression that I was willing to do what he asked me 
when I did not intend to do so — why, I can see noth- 
ing in that but direct falsehood.” 

A lurid gleam leaped from Jerome Fields’ eyes. 


238 Entering Into His Own 

“You use plain language. I am not recommending 
falsehood, but I am recommending the common 
sense that would have enabled you to hold your own 
with this bold, unscrupulous man. Half of his for- 
tune is yours. If you have not the manhood to make 
an open fight for it in court, as I advised you to, 
when we first learned the particulars of the settle- 
ment of General Graham’s estate, I see no reason 
why you should not secure your own by a little 
finesse.” 

“I see a reason,” Philip said gravely. “It is the 
old, old one. It would not have been right.” 

“Bah! You sicken me. Philip Graham, your 
mistaken ideas of such matters will ruin your life. 
You will sink to the level of stupid mediocrity — 
you who might become a genius. And why will 
you do this? Because you are bound hand and 
foot by a foolish superstition, a relic of a dead-and- 
gone past.” 

Philip half rose, then resumed his seat. His face 
was colorless. Was this his friend who was speak- 
ing? 

“I do not recognize you in this mood, Doctor 
Fields. What you call superstition is a vital truth 
to me.” 

Doctor Fields pushed back his plate, a sneer 
curving his lips. “I judge so, as you seem willing 
to give up everything for it. Let me ask one ques- 
tion. Are you going tamely to bear your uncle’s 
injustice?” 

“I do not see as there is anything else I can do.” 


A Broken Friendship 239 

“I do. Commence suit against him for your 
rightful share of your grandfather’s property. 
Even your weak conscience must admit that it is 
yours.” 

‘‘It was intended for me, at least in my grand- 
father’s last days. But without money or influence 
I doubt if I could win a case against Uncle Howard. 
That is not all. I would have to prove him a villain 
and a forger. I cannot expose the crimes of my 
father’s brother and of Winnie’s father.” 

“You tried to tell me of some plan for your fu- 
ture. Is it as rattle-brained as your present con- 
duct?” 

It was a moment before Philip replied. He was 
proud, and it had not been easy for him to bear the 
taunting words of Doctor Fields, but so confident 
was he that there was some misunderstanding that 
he replied : 

“I am not sure that it will meet with your ap- 
proval, but here it is. You know how much study 
I have given to Lake Michigan, its legends, plants, 
and animals. I am confident a fine work can be pre- 
pared from my notes and drawings, providing I 
carefully review and verify them by actual experi- 
ments. I believe I will go back to Harbor Springs 
and resume my solitary life at the cottage. This 
summer and autumn will enable me to make the 
necessary researches, and I will give the winter to 
the writing of the book. You know we have often 
talked of my undertaking such a work.” 

“And you expect to do it in a little country town 


240 Entering Into His Own 

away from libraries and laboratories? Humph! 
I’d write it in rhyme were I you. It’s as well for 
you to go back to your fishing and berrying. It is 
what you seem fitted for.” 

He had gone too far. Philip’s head was thrown 
back proudly. 

‘‘We will not discuss the matter further.” 

Doctor Fields rose. A laugh so bitter that it 
made Philip shiver rang out. 

“I have taken much from you. Nay, Philip Gra- 
ham, I have loved you, but my patience with your 
whims is at an end. I have no desire to number 
among my friends such an utter coward as you are 
proving yourself to be. Unless you will become 
reconciled to your uncle and so be enabled to carry 
on your studies or pluck up courage enough to give 
Howard Graham battle in the courts I must request 
that we meet hereafter as strangers.” 

“What?” Philip cried. “I have taken all your 
cruel and unjust words tamely, because I could 
not believe that you really meant them. Do I 
understand you aright? Are you no longer my 
friend ?” 

“That depends upon yourself. Will you follow 
my advice in this affair?” 

“I will not. You have no more right to dictate to 
me, to urge me to do what I feel to be wrong, than 
had my uncle.” 

“Perhaps not. Like him, I am through with you. 
Good morning,” and he started for the door. 

“Wait a moment,” Philip said in a husky voice. 


A Broken Friendship 241 

“Why are you doing this? There must be some 
reason.” 

“Why? Because the rule of conduct adopted by 
such fanatics as yourself and Rex Abbot is ruining 
bright young lives. No one escapes; even those 
whose brains allow them to rise above the super- 
stition are hurt by it. You ask why I fight against 
this creed. It is because it has ruined my happi- 
ness,” and he was gone. 

A little later Philip understood. Dazed and heart- 
sick, he was on his way homeward, when he heard 
his name called. Turning he saw Professor Gray 
coming. The professor had been one of Rex’s class- 
mates and had always manifested a friendly interest 
in Philip. 

“Want to ask you something, Graham,” he said, 
falling into step with Philip. “You know I was a 
friend of Rex, and I am interested in that talented 
sister of his. Of course you see that it is not idle 
curiosity that prompts the question. Is it true Miss 
Abbot is about to be married?” 

“Helen? Helen married? Oh, I think not. I 
hear from her frequently, and she has never men- 
tioned anything of the kind.” 

“One of our class who lives in Detroit is here for 
the week, and he told it. Pie was talking to Doctor 
Fields and myself. By the way, Fields used to be 
devoted to Miss Abbot. Well, your work at Evan- 
ston is nearly done. That way? Then we must 
part here. Good-by.” 

Philip’s thoughts were busy, as he hastened on. 


242 Entering Into His Own 

eager to reach the shelter of his own room. The 
question asked by Professor Gray gave a clue to 
the mystery. It was because he thought the woman 
he loved was about to marry another that Jerome 
Fields had allowed himself to be ruled by a spirit 
of bitterness. 

‘‘Naturally he is noble-minded and just,” Philip 
said to himself. “The feeling of resentment he 
cherishes, not toward Helen, but toward the faith 
that is stronger than her love for him, has corrupted 
his sense of justice and his nobility. There is much 
about him that I respect and love. Yet henceforth 
we must meet as strangers.” 

This last trial hurt Philip sorely. There had been 
his uncle’s anger, his own change of prospects, Win- 
nie’s enforced absence, and now the losing of one 
whom he had considered his true friend. 

The day arrived upon which Philip and Floyd 
were to receive their diplomas. While the occasion 
was a proud and satisfactory one to both the young 
men, the events of the past week had dimmed the 
pleasure they had expected would be theirs. 

Floyd’s parents and sister were present. He had 
looked forward to their coming, hoping to introduce 
them to Winnie. The fact that he must leave Evan- 
ston without knowing the whereabouts of the girl 
he loved greatly disturbed Floyd. 

“It might be worse,” he confided to Philip, trying 
to smile. “I have one thing to console me ; wher- 
ever Winnie is she is as true and constant to me as 
if she was here at my side. In time her father will 


A Broken Friendship 243 

come to see the uselessness of keeping her away 
from me.” 

Philip had many friends in the college town 
where he had spent three years. Sincere congratu- 
lations and warm wishes for his continued success 
were showered upon him. Still he missed the per- 
sonal touch — there was no one to whom his success 
was of vital importance. 

Winnie, his sister-cousin, was absent. Jerome 
Fields, the man whom he considered his best friend, 
was estranged from him. When they met on the 
street Doctor Fields passed without even a bow of 
recognition. 

Philip bore it bravely. He had decided to carry 
out the plan he had mentioned to Doctor Fields. 
Seeking an interview with the president of the col- 
lege, he told him what he had in his mind. The 
president was well acquainted with Philip’s mental 
ability and cordially approved of the undertaking. 

“Make haste slowly,” he said with a sympathetic 
smile. “Read, study, experiment, and, above all 
other things, think, think. No, your residence in 
that secluded spot will not be a bar to your 
success. You can procure any books you need, you 
have a good microscope, you can draw well, and 
photographs can be made for you. Before making 
a final copy of your work for an editor or publisher 
I would advise a few weeks here or at some other 
first-class educational institution.” 

The face of the younger man lighted up with 
the pleasure this understanding, sympathetic coun- 


244 Entering Into His Own 

sel gave him. He held out his hand. The vener- 
able president took it and, holding it between both 
his own, went on. 

‘‘Again I say make haste slowly. Graham, you 
are one of my boys from whom I look for great 
things. I am confident this proposed book will be 
well received. In after years it may be yours to 
give to the world a higher work, the result of your 
God-given imaginative powers. That we will leave 
for coming time to decide. To come back to your 
present. Another thing I would recommend would 
be the submitting of your manuscript to some spe- 
cialist for a reading. Say to Doctor Fields ; he is a 
warm friend of yours.” 

Philip winced, but he made no response to that 
last suggestion. He thanked the president and 
promised to keep him informed of the progress of 
the book. 

Arrangements for leaving Evanston were soon 
completed. Philip packed his belongings, bade his 
friends good-by, parting from Floyd with real re- 
gret. He went to Chicago and took a steamer from 
there to Harbor Springs. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A PERIOD OP GROWTH. 

I T was sunset when Philip reached the dock at 
Harbor Springs. He left the boat, and in 
the crowd of passengers who disembarked was 
passed unnoticed by those who had waited the 
steamer's arrival. Turning his back upon the glow- 
ing west, he started down the shore, following the 
well-remembered path. To the bay, glowing with 
ruddy and opaline light, he turned, as to a long- 
absent friend. 

The cottage was soon reached. Philip had writ- 
ten Mrs. Perrine of his coming and asked her to 
have the house aired and made ready for him. The 
tiny lawn was overgrown with tall grass, the seat 
round the pine was broken, but the house, with its 
wide veranda and upper balcony, was unchanged. 

Mrs. Perrine had left the key in the old place. 
Philip entered the cottage, and he was not ashamed 
that his eyes were dimmed with sudden tears. 

^‘Home!” he murmured. ‘Tt is a solitary one, 
but hallowed by sacred memories. God has called 
me back here to further fit myself for life's duties." 

Philip took a few days to look about him and 
make some repairs before settling down to his 
chosen work. From the villagers he received a 


246 Entering Into His Own 

hearty welcome. His intention of staying at the 
cottage caused them much surprise. 

“Why, we ’sposed you’d go into some big busi- 
ness,” Ralph Webster said, a note of disapproval in 
his voice. “It don’t seem as if it paid you to go to 
college if you are going to live here and not do any- 
thing.” 

“I hope to do, but it may seem a strange doing 
to you. Perhaps I may be able to show you that 
college has helped me to he as well as to do.” 

Ralph shook his head. “Oh, you always was well 
enough, but I thought as like as not you’d go into 
politics or law or work that would amount to 
something.” 

Philip turned away with a smile. Ralph and he 
did not look at life from the same standpoint; that 
was all. 

The years had made some changes in the village. 
The adjoining resort of Wequetonsing had con- 
tinued to grow. That part extending in the direc- 
tion of Harbor Springs and known as West We- 
quetonsing now came to the property owned by 
Philip. He had been at home only two days when 
he was asked to sell a site for a cottage. 

The price offered was a good one. Philip re- 
solved to accept it and to sell other lots as the occa- 
sion rose. He reserved a wide frontage upon the 
beach for himself and planned to expend a part of 
the money received from the sale already made in 
improving his own home. 

The cottage was small and old-fashioned, some- 


A Period of Growth 247 

thing of a contrast to the more pretentious summer 
homes that dotted the beach. As it had been occu- 
pied through the entire year, the rooms had been 
plastered and made warmer than were the houses 
used only during the summer months. 

The small-paned windows were replaced by 
those containing larger sheets of glass, the veranda 
was extended round the east side as well as across 
the front, and the whole house was treated to a coat 
of soft gray paint. The trees and neglected shrub- 
bery were trimmed, and the lawn was mowed. It 
was too late to plant flower seeds, but Philip ob- 
tained from the greenhouse a few blossoming plants 
for a bed near the house. 

Within the walls were repainted, soft neutral 
tints being selected. Philip had something of an 
artist’s eye, and the rooms with the cases of books 
and the student’s belongings were cozy and attrac- 
tive. 

His outdoor improvements were not confined to 
the house and the lawn. The broken seat round 
the pine tree was replaced with a new one. The 
old sailboat was repainted and newly-rigged. 
Philip had sold his rowboat, but he bought a 
strong, light canoe. A serviceable boat house was 
built at the water’s edge. 

Many of these tasks were done by Philip’s own 
hands. He was strong and muscular, although still 
a trifle under medium height. The sun and the 
wind soon coated his fair face with bronze. A 
slight chestnut mustache shaded his mouth, but 


248 Entering Into His Own 

without concealing the fine lines of his lips. His 
eyes still denoted the dreamer and the seer. Years 
of strenuous labor as a student had enabled Philip 
to control his vivid imagination and make it his 
willing servant. 

In a short time he was at work. His labor did 
not confine him within doors, but carried him afar 
over the waves of the bay and around the Point into 
the far-stretching waters of Lake Michigan. 

He studied the water. All its aspects were joy 
to him. When it extended away into a blue, sun- 
kissed plain, when it reflected the low-drooping gray 
clouds and was ruffled by the slowly-falling sum- 
mer rain, when the wind lashed the surface of the 
bay into a waste of white-capped waves, or the 
moon’s fairy-like light tipped each undulation with 
silver — each of these phases quickened the beating 
of the student’s heart. 

It was not alone the surface of the water that 
Philip studied. For hours he lay prone in a boat 
or upon a log that projected out into the water, 
studying the animal and vegetable life beneath him. 
With a dredge he secured treasures which were car- 
ried home and subjected to the microscope. Philip 
was an expert swimmer, and often he went diving 
down into the water after some coveted plant. 
From his boyhood he had known the fish of the lake, 
but he added scientific information of their struc- 
ture and habits to his former knowledge. 

Much of his time was spent on the water, but 
Philip did not forget his love for the woods. He 


A Period of Growth 249 

would leave his canoe upon the shore while he 
wandered beneath the great forest trees, once more 
losing himself in the delight of listening to the 
melody of the wind in the lofty pines. 

Notwithstanding his loneliness, Philip Graham 
was happy. He still mourned for Winnie and re- 
gretted his estrangement from Doctor Fields. But 
nature comforted him for much, and in the delight 
of his work he forgot all else. 

He did not dream of failure. With Emerson he 
thought ‘‘the world is his, but he must possess it 
by putting himself in harmony with the constitu- 
tion of things.” 

Philip did not disregard the injunction of his 
Master, “As I have loved you, that ye also love one 
another.” His individual work must be solitary, 
but he had no right to refuse to do his part of the 
labor that God gives to humanity. 

He attended church and took part in the church 
work. The words spoken by Rex in his dying hour 
were not unheeded. Men saw the Christ in the life 
of Philip Graham. 

His boyish friendships were renewed. Those of 
the youths in whom he had been interested who 
were making of their manhood what God meant it 
should be were helped and cheered. To those who 
had fallen by the way Philip gave not only an en- 
couraging word but also a helping hand. 

Social pleasures came to him. Not only was he 
invited to homes in the village, but at the different 
resorts he often met a college friend. 


250 Entering Into His Own 

Philip went often to the lighthouse. 

Mrs. Williams, the keeper, and her artist husband 
had long been his friends. The photographs needed 
in his work were made for him by Mr. Williams. 
Philip had never lost his childish love for the light 
which, all through the months when navigation was 
open, shone out over the lake, warning boats of the 
dangers of the coast. 

Summer went by all too quickly. Autumn lin- 
gered long, as if loath to leave that wooded shore. 
The days grew shorter and colder; winter was at 
hand. 

Helen wrote to her young friend regularly. As 
Philip had thought, the report of her intended mar- 
riage was unfounded. 

Helen Abbot was not a woman to love lightly. 
She could not accept the hand of the man to whom 
her heart had gone out, but she was true to him. 

She approved of Philip’s undertaking, although 
deploring the lonely life he led. As for herself, she 
retained her position and carried on her musical 
studies. 

There had been several letters from Winnie. The 
Grahams were abroad, travelling from one point to 
another. Mr. Graham was kind to his daughter, 
but he continued to rave against both Philip and 
Floyd. Winnie wrote she thought his business af- 
fairs were worrying him, as he seemed disturbed 
and uneasy. 

The first of December Philip went to Evanston 
for two weeks. He wished to consult the museums 


% 



HARBOR POINT LIGHTHOUSE. 








« 


A Period of Growth 251 

and libraries and to verify some points in his notes. 
From all his old friends save one he received a 
cordial welcome. 

Philip met Doctor Fields in a corridor of one of 
the buildings. The younger man halted and half 
extended his hand, but the other strode by, his face 
stern and hard. 

^Tt’s no use,” Philip admitted to himself. ‘Tf he 
would only wish me well in this thing I am trying 
to do ! He first suggested it to me and was helpful 
in many ways.” 

Upon returning to the village Philip continued his 
work. It was a labor of love. He did other writ- 
ing, occasionally receiving a check in payment for 
a scientific article, a short story, or a bit of verse. 

The young man’s love for nature was too deep 
and sincere to be daunted by cold or snow, so he was 
often abroad. Winter did not put a stop to his 
observations. Many things were learned by study- 
ing the water through the ice. 

There were days when the storm king was 
abroad, and Philip sat before his open fire, busy 
with books or pen. Sometimes a friend dropped in 
for an hour’s chat, or one of the village boys came 
for the loan of a book. 

There had been additions made to the library left 
by Julian Graham. Helen had given Philip many 
of her brother’s books. Others he had bought. 

Among the priests stationed at the Indian Cath- 
olic School was one. Brother Francis, who strongly 
attracted Philip. The two men first met at the 


252 Entering Into His Own 

home of Jim Harkness. This young Indian had 
been a frequent visitor at the cottage. He told 
Philip that he had a good home a little way inland 
and was caring for his widowed mother. Philip 
heard that Jim was ill and set out to visit him. 

A half mile back from the edge of the bluff there 
was a group of squalid houses, all inhabited by In- 
dians. It was to one of the poorest of these that 
Philip was directed when he inquired for Jim. 

“There must be some mistake,” Philip thought, 
as he knocked upon the door. 

It opened to show a single room. This was low 
and lighted by a solitary window. Upon one of the 
two wretched beds that occupied one side of the 
room Jim lay. A bent, dirty squaw with a repul- 
sive face had opened the door, and between her and 
the cracked stove stood a tall, stalwart man dressed 
in the coarse brown robe of a Franciscan Brother. 
He had a strong, intellectual face and replied to the 
new-comer’s bow with courtly grace. 

Philip greeted Jim and inquired as to his welfare. 
The Indian, notwithstanding his usual stolidness, 
seemed embarrassed. Evidently he recalled the 
highly-colored tales with which he had entertained 
Philip. 

“Is this your mother, Jim?” Philip asked. 

“Yes. We are mighty poor.” 

“I see no need of that. You have been well until 
just now, and all the fall and winter there has been 
a standing offer of good wages for choppers at 
Lee’s Mill.” 


A Period of Growth 253 

‘‘But rm just a poor Indian.” Jim repeated the 
excuse of his boyhood with a whine. “You don't 
know.” 

Philip turned away impatiently. The priest bent 
over the bed, speaking in a low voice. Philip ad- 
dressed the squaw. From her he learned that the 
family was destitute, and he placed a silver dollar 
in her hands. 

“Don’t give her that.” It was Brother Francis 
who spoke. “Ono, give it back to him. Pardon me, 
sir, but if you wish to help this needy household 
send them the provisions the money will buy.” 

Philip put the coin in his pocket and buttoned 
up his overcoat. Brother Francis continued speak- 
ing. 

“If you are about to return to the village I will 
walk with you.” 

“I am disappointed in Jim,” Philip cried, as soon 
as they were in the open air. “The rascal had told 
me he made a good home for his mother.” 

A slow smile stirred the priest’s impassive face. 
“Ono would tell you the same. It is as good a one 
as she has ever known. Ah, Mr. Graham, you 
have not learned the Church’s patience with this 
race.” 

“No. Pardon me, Brother Francis, but do you not 
grow discouraged? There is so little to show for 
the years of toil and self-sacrifice that have been 
given down at your school.” 

“The years have not been wasted. We manage 
to keep a hold upon the Indians, and in their last 


254 Entering Into His Own 

hours many return to the Church they may have 
neglected for years. 

They were nearing the top of the bluff. Philip 
paused and looked into his companion’s face. 

“Brother Francis, does tha^ satisfy the Church? 
I am not scoffing. I know the power of Christ in 
men’s lives, and I honor any man’s faith. But is 
there not something wrong in your teaching ? Why 
should not Christ enter into the hearts of these In- 
dians and make their lives pure and upright as Well 
as their deaths triumphant?” 

It was a moment before Brother Francis spoke. 
When he did there was in his voice a kindly con- 
descension, as if he was enlightening an ignorant 
child. 

“You are young, Mr. Graham, and you have not 
studied the Indian race. Let us talk of pleasanter 
things. I hear you are interested in the natural 
sciences.” 

The conversation was confined to the subject of 
Philip’s studies. The student was surprised. How 
did the priest chance to know so much of him and 
of his affairs? Brother Francis talked so enter- 
tainingly and was so well informed regarding the 
subjects under discussion that Philip was loath to 
leave him. 

“I should enjoy seeing your drawings and photo- 
graphs,” the priest said, and Philip responded 
warmly : 

“Come in any time and look them over. I will 
be glad to have you do so.” 


A Period of Growth 255 

‘‘Thank you, I will.” 

They talked a few minutes longer. The priest 
explained that he objected to Philip leaving the 
money in Ono’s hands, because he knew it would 
go for drink. At Philip’s request he took the dollar, 
promising to spend it for Jim and his mother. 

In less than a week Brother Francis spent an 
evening at the cottage. They talked of Philip’s pro- 
posed book, and two hours went by pleasantly. It 
was arranged that the priest should come again and 
listen to parts of the manuscript. 

A strange companionship grew up between the 
two. Intellectually they had many tastes in com- 
mon. At first they talked of science and literature. 
Brother Francis was well-read and possessed pro- 
gressive ideas. 

Philip was surprised to learn that his position at 
the school was only that of instructor in manual 
training. 

“A bit of carpentry and wood work is all we can 
give the boys,” he said lightly. “Then I keep the 
accounts.” 

“Pardon me, but a man of your attainments — ” 
Philip began. 

The other stopped him. “It is the will of the 
Church. She is always right. My turn may 
come.” 

At last they began to talk of religion. Philip 
felt that he was being warned not to interfere with 
the Indians, whom the Catholic Church considered 
as her charges. He felt that the priest resented his 


256 Entering Into His Own 

interest in Jim, who was still ill. The younger man 
dared to press the matter home. 

“Your Church is wrong. You make too much of 
externals, and Christ does not become a vital force 
in these lives. For years you have the Indian boys 
and girls. You teach them and receive them into 
the Church. When they are old enough they go out 
into the world, and then comes the test of the train- 
ing you have given them. One needs but to walk 
through our village and read the faces of the 
Indians he meets to know the results. Two- 
thirds of your pupils lead lives of drunkenness and 
shame.” 

“It is not the fault of the Church. Their moral 
force is vitiated, and you Protestants urge them to 
renounce our teaching.” 

“And you command them to refuse the aid we 
would give them. We work at cross purposes. 
Brother Francis, yet we both worship Christ. 
Something is wrong.” 

Brother Francis shrugged his shoulders. It was 
a cold, stormy evening. Philip had brewed a little 
pot of coffee and brought out a dish of nuts. The 
young host sat watching his guest. The firelight 
played over the priest’s finely-shaped head, pictu- 
resque robe, and the pale green majolica cup he held 
in his hands. Suddenly he spoke, his gaze turned 
away from that of Philip. 

“If something is wrong it is beyond you or 
me. Why should you give these poor wretches 
a thought? There is Jim. He is dying and can die 


A Period of Growth 257 

happy only if the Church soothes his last hours. 
You — ^you will not — 

He paused as if uncertain how to express himself. 
Philip sat upright, his head well thrown back. 

“I will go to him in the morning.’' 

‘‘Pardon me, Mr. Graham, if I speak plainly. 
You are not wanted. Jim and his mother are con- 
tented. You have no right to interfere.” 

“Answer me one question. What are you offer- 
ing Jim Harkness? If he recovers will this concep- 
tion of God’s forgiveness and love that you are 
forcing upon him fit him to live uprightly and in 
communion with Christ?” 

The eyes of the priest wavered and fell. “He will 
not recover,” was all he said, as he rose to go. 

“You have answered my question. Brother 
Francis, I am somewhat to blame that I have not 
pressed this matter upon Jim. In the morning I 
shall go to him. Good night.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


WORK BY THE WAY. 

E arly the next morning Philip went to the 
squalid home of Jim Harkness. It was 
empty. Pie questioned first one and then 
another of the Indians living near, but no one would 
tell him aught of the removal of Jim. It was not 
until he was on his way back to Harbor Springs 
that he met a farmer who had driven in from the 
country to meet an early train. The man told him 
that just at daylight he had passed a sleigh contain- 
ing the sick Indian and two priests from the school. 

Philip went at once to the brothers’ quarters and 
asked to see Brother Francis. The monk came 
promptly, but did not ask Philip to enter. 

‘‘Yes, Jim Harkness is here. No, Mr. Graham, 
you cannot see him, not now. Moving Jim has tired 
him, but we trust with the care we can give him he 
will soon be better.” 

Philip looked squarely into Brother Francis’ 
eyes. The gaze was as steadily returned. 

‘‘Why did you bring him here?” 

“Why did we bring him here ? That is a strange 
question for you to ask, Mr. Graham, for you know 
all about the poverty and wretchedness of his home. 


Work by the Way 259 

The Church thought it her duty to care for the dying 
youth, physically as well as spiritually. The Church 
never fails in her duty to her children.” 

“That is saying a great deal, especially when one 
recalls the want, ignorance, and sin that confront 
your Church here. I will come to-morrow afternoon 
to see Jim. Good morning,” and receiving only a 
polite bow from Brother Francis, Philip strode 
away. 

The next afternoon his ring was answered by an- 
other priest, an old man with an austere face. To 
Philip's request to see Brother Francis he replied: 

“The brother is engaged at present. He bade me 
tell you that the Indian youth called Jim Harkness 
died this morning. His funeral services will be 
held to-morrow morning at the church.” 

Philip stepped back. The craft of the priesthood 
had proved too strong for him. Jim had died, trust- 
ing in the offices of the Roman Catholic Church 
rather than in the Saviour of men. 

He turned away without another word. Some- 
thing in his face made the old brother look after 
him with a scowl. 

The incident served to rouse Philip to a new in- 
terest in the many Indians of the village and the 
adjacent country. He did not attempt his work 
among them alone. His pastor, the pastors of the 
other churches, and Christians of all denominations 
were appealed to. The appeal did not fall upon deaf 
ears, and a little band of faithful men and women 
resolved to make an effort to bring some of those 


26 o Entering Into His Own 

benighted souls to a knowledge of salvation through 
the Son of God. 

There was no ostentatious display of good works. 
The Indians were approached carefully, given aid to 
help them to a higher plane of living, urged to re- 
nounce their olden lives of drunkenness and degra- 
dation, and, trusting in Christ for help, rise to the 
dignity of true manhood and womanhood. 

It was a difficult task. To some it seemed hope- 
less. Not only did Philip and his friends have to 
fight the ignorance, the indifference, and the indo- 
lence of those whom they were trying to serve, but 
their most powerful and insidious foe was the 
Church of Rome. This antagonism was closely- 
veiled but certain. Never had the Indians of Har- 
bor Springs been so carefully looked after by the 
Catholic Church as in the few months immediately 
following the death of Jim Harkness. 

Thus much of Philip’s labor seemed wasted. But 
it bore fruit. A few of the aborigines and half 
breeds were led to see their need of Christ. Seeing 
this need, they were led to turn from their old wor- 
ship and seek the true and the living God. 

It was only a beginning. These persons must 
long be helped and advised, they must be watched 
over, taught, and led forward. It was a beginning, 
though. Who shall say that the seed planted in 
faith shall not yield “some an hundredfold, some 
sixty, some thirty.” 

There was another good resulting from this work, 
a good that always follows such efforts yet is too 


26 i 


Work by the Way 

often overlooked. The workers themselves grew 
in grace. When Christians are roused to a sense of 
personal responsibility for the salvation of their 
neighbors, then it is that the Church is exalted. 

There was no open rupture between Philip and 
Brother Francis. For a time the priest continued 
his visits to the cottage. The conversation was usu- 
ally confined to Philip’s work and to books. The 
same kindly interest was manifested by the priest, 
but he felt that Philip had lost confidence in him. 

“Why do you stay here, Graham, here in this dull 
little village?” Brother Francis asked one evening 
in the spring. A few warm days had been followed 
by a rain, and as the two men sat before the open 
fire they heard the steady patter of the raindrops 
against the windows. “Now that your book is 
finished why not go out into the world and wrest 
from the hand of fate the honor and power to which 
your talents entitle you?” 

A mocking smile curved Philip’s lips as he looked 
over at his companion. “That is the very question 
I once put to you. I understand your eagerness to 
be rid of me. Brother Francis. Doubtless I will not 
long remain here.” 

“Ah, where will you go ? I am interested in your 
future.” 

“Thank you. I have made two applications for 
a position as science teacher for the coming year. 
Until I know the result of these I am going to give 
my time to my pen. I may remain here. You let 
the Church decide the question of your future, while 


262 Entering Into His Own 

I leave mine in the hands of a Power higher than 
the Church. I am sure God has a definite work for 
me. When I am ready for it, and the preparation 
is my part, he will open the way for me to enter 
into my field of labor.” 

Brother Francis looked at him questioningly, al- 
most wistfully. ''Graham, I do not understand you. 
You are a menace to the work of the Church, and I 
ought to hate you. Instead I find myself danger- 
ously near loving you.” 

In his eagerness Philip leaned near Brother 
Francis. "There spoke the man, not the priest! 
Why will you not throw off your shackles and rise 
up in your own strength? You might become a 
leader among men.” 

The priest shook his head. "You cannot under- 
stand my life. Obedience to the Church is bred in 
my bones and blood. Your way may give more lib- 
erty, but mine — well, the Church can do no wrong.” 

Philip would have spoken, but the priest held up 
one hand, at the same time rising to his feet. 

"Discussion is useless. I must see less of you. 
At first I hoped to win you to the Church, but I have 
come to see the folly of that. I shall fight you and 
your influence to the end, but I wish it had been dif- 
ferent. Good-by.” 

He held out his hand. Philip took it in his own. 
The next moment the older man had left the house. 

A week later Philip dispatched his carefully-pre- 
pared manuscript, accompanied by drawings and 
photographs, to a well-known New York publish- 


Work by the Way 263 

ing house. There had been some correspondence 
about the matter, and the young author had good 
reasons for hoping that his work would meet with 
a favorable reception. 

That task off his hands, Philip gave much time to 
his general writing. He loved the work. The se- 
vere scientific labor to which he had subjected him- 
self seemed to have strengthened and given new 
power to his imagination. Poetry appealed strongly 
to him. As he sat at his desk he was often thrilled 
with an overwhelming sense of happiness in the 
labor that was his. 

With the coming of the first warm days Philip 
began to put the grounds round his little home in 
perfect order. He had already sold two more build- 
ing lots and had received an excellent offer for the 
cottage. 

“That is not for sale,” had been his reply to the 
offer. “It is my home, as it was that of my parents, 
and I shall never sell it.” 

The real-estate agent who was interviewing him 
had known Philip from childhood. He shrugged 
his shouders as he said : 

“It is easy to see you are still a dreamer, Phil. 
There’s no place for sentiment in this age. I never 
saw anything I wouldn’t sell if I could get my price 
for it. You had better think this offer over.” 

Philip dismissed the matter with a smile. “I have 
thought it over. My home is not for sale.” 

That was an early spring. The ice went out of 
the bay, and once more Philip’s boats went skim- 


264 Entering Into His Own 

ming over the water. He planted a small vegetable 
garden and planned to have many flowers. 

Brother Francis came no more to the cottage. 
Philip carried on his work among the Indians, still 
feeling the opposition of the Catholic Church. 

One afternoon early in July, Philip sat at his 
desk, writing. The question of his future was still 
unanswered. One of his applications for a position 
had been rejected, a more experienced instructor 
having obtained the situation. Philip was undis- 
mayed; the way would open. As he bent over his 
work his face was serene and glad. 

Outside the scene was a beautiful one. The 
water of the bay shimmered and gleamed in the sun- 
light, breaking in soft, melodious murmurs upon the 
beach. Among the branches of the old pine a faint 
breeze chanted a plaintive harmony. 

East and a little way back of the cottage a row of 
tall sweetpeas made an effective background for a 
mass of bright-colored flowers. Still nearer the 
house a diamond-shaped bed of scarlet geraniums 
contrasted with the velvety green turf. Boxes 
painted 'Ee same color as the cottage were fastened 
to the top of the veranda railing, and in them grew 
rank nasturtium vines. The wealth of scarlet, or- 
ange, pale yellow, cardinal, and maroon blossoms 
trailed over the edges of the boxes, in places reaching 
the earth below. A hammock was suspended from 
the veranda roof, and in one corner was a small table 
and some rockers. 

Suddenly Philip laid down his pen. He heard 


Work by the Way 265 

steps outside. Advancing to the open door, a cry 
of astonishment broke from his lips. 

“Floyd! Winnie! Where did you come from? 
What does it mean?’' 

“It means that we were married two days ago,’’ 
was Floyd’s reply, while Winnie clung to her 
cousin, her form shaken by sobs. 

“Married ! I don’t understand. Winnie, you are 
ill,” for the girl’s colorless face and wild eyes 
alarmed Philip. 

Floyd came forward. “She is excited and ner- 
vous. No wonder after all she has gone through, 
poor girl! There, dear! It is all over. You shall 
lie down here in the hammock. While you rest I 
will tell Phil all about it. It’s a stranger story 
than your fiction, old fellow.” 

Floyd removed his wife’s hat. She lay down 
among the cushions of the hammock and smiled 
faintly up in the faces of the two young men. Philip 
brought chairs, and Floyd began the strange story 
he had to tell. 

Mr. Graham and his daughter, accompanied only 
by Winnie’s maid, had wandered over Europe for 
several months. Late in the winter they went to 
Rome and were there joined by Leon Bar dell, a 
friend of the lawyer’s. Mr. Bardell was a middle- 
aged man, and Winnie knew he was considered very 
wealthy. 

It was easy to see that Bardell was trying to win 
Winnie’s favor. She treated him with marked cold- 
ness. Then her father told her she was to marry 


266 Entering Into His Own 

her elderly suitor. Winnie indignantly refused to 
think of it, whereupon her father admitted that by 
speculating with Mr. Bardell he had lost a great 
deal of money. Winnie's marriage would make the 
interests of the two men one, and Howard Graham 
felt sure they could regain all they had lost. 

Dark days followed. Winnie was firm, although 
her father’s coaxing and commands came to be fol- 
lowed by threats. Her maid was dismissed. Mr. 
Bardell returned to the United States, and Mr. 
Graham and his daughter soon followed. Winnie 
was kept a close prisoner in her old home. 

One morning she found that her father had dis- 
appeared. There was only a hasty scrawl to tell 
her that his entire fortune had been swept away and 
also that of Mr. Bardell. That was not all. In 
their desperate efYorts to save themselves the men 
had violated the law and were fugitives from justice. 

Mr. Graham reminded Winnie that she still had 
the money left her by her mother. She was not of 
age, but he was positive the trustees would advance 
her sufficient for her present needs. He bade her 
an affectionate, but brief farewell, saying it was 
doubtful if they ever again met. 

Winnie had been completely unnerved. Her first 
thought had been to go to Philip. Before she could 
carry out this plan Floyd, who chanced to be in Chi- 
cago on business, heard the story of Mr. Graham’s 
failure and disappearance. He hastened to his be- 
trothed and persuaded her to marry him at once. 

“We came on here for a few days, then I will take 


Work by the Way 267 

Winnie to my mother/' Floyd said in conclusion. 
“Phil, both Winnie and I regret the loss of the 
money on your account. We had hoped that the 
day would come when you would receive your 
rightful share of your grandfather’s property.” 

Philip sat looking over the bay a few moments 
before he replied. At last he said : 

“I had never built any hopes upon it, so I am not 
disappointed. Indeed I think it will be better for 
me not to inherit wealth. Money could do little to 
help me win the success for which I am laboring. 
I am glad Winnie is safe in your care, Floyd. We 
must try to bring her back to a semblance of her old 
self.” 

Winnie sincerely grieved over her father’s con- 
duct and disappearance. However, she grew 
stronger and more cheerful during the week they 
stayed at the cottage. Philip would not let them 
go before the expiration of that time and would fain 
have kept them longer. 

The young couple left by steamer for Chicago. 
There they would take a train for Floyd’s western 
home. Philip went back to his work, his heart 
strangely at rest concerning his unsettled future. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Philip's own. 

A nother month slipped away. Philip heard 
from Mr. and Mrs. Henry. Winnie was de- 
lighted with the West, and she had already 
won the hearts of Floyd’s relatives. The change of 
scene, the freedom from the anxiety of the past year, 
were doing much to restore her to her olden self, 
although she still mourned for her father. 

One midsummer afternoon Philip was again 
called from his desk, that time by a rap at the door. 
It was Max Perrine, and he had brought Philip’s 
mail from the village. 

“Just one letter,” the boy cried, giving the en- 
velope a toss into its owner’s hands. 

He scampered off, and Philip looked at the letter. 
One glance quickened the beating of his heart. The 
upper left-hand corner of the envelope bore the name 
and address of the publishing house to which he had 
forwarded his book manuscript. 

Philip did not re-enter the house, but sat down in 
the hammock. Tearing open the envelope he drew 
out a type-written letter, which ran : 

New York, August 9. 

Mr. Philip Graham, Harbor Springs, Mich. 

Dear Sir: Your manuscript, “Studies of Lake Michigan,” 


Philip’s Own 269 

has received our most careful attention. The delay in writing 
you concerning it has been occasioned by our submitting the 
manuscript to other readers besides those in our employ. We 
recognized the originality of your style and your happy use of 
language, but we wished to be sure that you were scientifically 
correct. We have been assured by the best authorities that 
you are; that text, illustrations and all are accurate. There- 
fore, it gives us great pleasure to inform you that we will 
gladly bring out your book. Will pay you one thousand dol- 
lars for manuscript, drawings and photographs, the copyright 
on the same to be entirely our property. Or, if you prefer, 
we will pay you a royalty on the sales for a given number 
of years. Work on the book will be commenced at once, and 
the first edition put on the market as soon as possible. Hop- 
ing some day to receive other work from your hand, and 
congratulating you on the success you have scored, we remain, 

Sincerely yours. 

Smith and Smith. 

The letter dropped from Philip’s hands. Throw- 
ing himself back among the cushions of the ham- 
mock he lay, gazing straight across the bay. 
Through the still air came the soft lapping of the 
waves against the pebbly beach. It was familiar 
music, yet that afternoon the melody took on a new 
form. Again and again the words “Joy! joy!” 
seemed to sound in Philip’s ears. 

It was the proudest moment of his life. He had 
accomplished that upon which he had set his heart. 
The way he had traveled had led into his own — that 
future of which he had long dreamed. 

It was not money or fame of which Philip Gra- 
ham thought in that first hour. He had all a stu- 
dent’s love for literature, and it stirred his nature 


270 Entering Into His Own 

to its depths to know that his thoughts were worthy 
of the preservation that would enable them to pass 
into the possession of others. They were real, these 
beloved fancies of his. Research had verified their 
truth without robbing them of their visionary 
charm. 

There was no failure this time. God had led him 
in the appointed way, and the near future should 
see other triumphs won. 

‘‘Philip!’’ cried a voice. “Are you asleep?” 

He sat up, bewildered at the second joy so closely 
following the first. Up the walk came Helen Abbot, 
tears and smiles mingled upon her face. 

“I am so glad, Helen, that you are here to share 
this with me!” and Philip, going forward to meet 
her, took both her hands in his. 

“To share what? This glorious afternoon? O 
Philip, this scene brings Rex back so plainly ! I am 
glad — how glad words cannot tell — to be here with 
you once more !” 

By that time Philip had recovered from his as- 
tonishment. He gathered up the precious letter he 
had dropped, put Helen into a comfortable chair, 
and sat down at her side to listen to the account of 
her unexpected coming. 

The story was a simple one. Philip knew that 
Helen had long desired to go abroad for a year’s 
study. The way had suddenly opened for her to do 
so, and she had resigned her position in Detroit. 
She was not to sail for some weeks and had resolved 
to come to Harbor Springs for a short stay. Ar- 


Philip’s Own 271 

riving that noon, she had engaged rooms at the hotel 
and at once started in search of Philip. 

They discussed the coming trip and all it meant 
to Helen. Philip knew how, in the girl’s great lone- 
liness, music had come to mean more and more to 
her. In it she found not only companionship but 
also renewed strength for life’s trials. 

“Now tell me of yourself, Philip,” she said, fixing 
her clear, dark eyes upon his face. “Somehow there 
is a new light in your eyes, a light of victory. I 
have so longed to hear the publisher’s decision re- 
garding the book. Has it yet reached you?” 

For reply Philip placed the letter he had just re- 
ceived in her hands. Helen read it, glad tears cours- 
ing down her cheeks. 

“O Philip, how can I express my delight, my 
pride in you ! I knew you would triumph, but even 
I did not dream that the victory would be so sudden 
and so complete.” 

They sat a few minutes without speaking. Philip 
realized that there was no person who could so 
freely enter into his feelings as could this clear-eyed 
woman. She had seen her own dream of happiness 
fade away, yet she retained her gladness in the joy 
of others. 

“Tell me of the book,” Helen said after a little. 
“I know what it is to you — the world’s recognition 
of your mental power. Philip, I never thought your 
first message to the world would be a scientific one ; 
I always planned for it to be a poetical one.” 

He smiled. “In one sense my work is not a sci- 


272 Entering Into His Own 

entific one, although every statement made regard- 
ing nature has been carefully verified and illumined 
by all known light. After all, Helen, science is but 
an attempt to interpret nature’s laws. In this little 
book I have tried to make others see and love one 
phase of nature as I love it. The Indian lore of the 
lake has a place as well as descriptions of the plants 
and fish. If the whole is recorded in the more com- 
monplace form of prose it is not because I have for- 
sworn my old allegiance to poetry. Nature still 
sings her melodies in my ears ; some glad day I shall 
give them to the world.” 

Her hand stole out to rest for a moment in his. 
After a brief silence she asked : 

‘‘Will you make writing your life’s work ? Would 
it not be more satisfactory to you than teaching?” 

“In one way it might. Still I hold that the teacher 
who stands face to face with his pupils may exert 
a more direct influence upon them than the one 
whose instruction is given them from the printed 
page. It may not be so easy to do the bidding of 
Rex — show the Christ in one’s daily life — in the 
classroom and the crowded marts of men as in the 
quiet study, but I feel a longing to try it. If I can 
secure a position as instructor in science I will take 
it. Otherwise I will give the next year to my pen.” 

“The poems?” she asked, her eyes shining softly 
into his.” 

“In what a hurry you are, dear friend. No, the 
poems cannot be shaped into a volume just yet. I 
believe I shall go East this fall and give some time 


Philip's Own 273 

to a study of the ocean water. Ah, Helen, how true 
it is that one thing leads unerringly to another!” 

They talked on and on. Once during that sum- 
mer afternoon Helen Abbot questioned her friend 
with her eyes turned from his face. 

“Doctor Fields, Philip? Have you had no word 
from him all this year?” 

“Not one word. I think I wrote you that when 
I was at Evanston he passed me without speaking. 
It hurt, yes, it hurt, for I love that man.” 

“I think in time he will come to see his error.” 
Helen’s voice was grave. “What grieves me, 
though, is that his best years, those of his strong and 
vigorous young manhood, should go by, and the 
work he might do for God and for humanity be left 
undone.” 

When Helen spoke of returning to the hotel 
Philip protested. She nodded her head. 

“I have it all planned. You are to go back with 
me for dinner. Nay, I will not take a refusal. To- 
morrow morning I will come up here again, and you 
shall give me lunch and a sail. I see a sailboat is 
anchored here. Is it the one in which we used to 
skim over the water?” 

“Yes, it is the Helen. Well, if you will not stay 
with me I will go with you.” 

It was late that night when Philip returned to the 
cottage. Even after retiring it was long before he 
slept. The events of the day had so excited him 
that he could not prevent his mind from dwelling 
upon them. 


274 Entering Into His Own 

Consequently it was later than usual the next 
morning when he rose. He dressed hastily, re- 
solving to go for a swim. His bathing suit was in 
the boat-house, so he opened the front door, thinking 
to go at once to the beach. 

No sooner had he passed through the doorway 
than he stopped. A man was seated upon the steps. 
Rising, the person turned, and Philip saw that it was 
Jerome Fields. 

For a moment no word was spoken. As Philip’s 
eyes scanned the face of the man who had once been 
his friend, the younger man’s breathing was quick- 
ened. What was it he saw? 

‘Thil, dear boy, forgive me. I do not deserve 
one kindly thought from you, yet I know you too 
well to fear that your forgiveness will be withheld 
from me.” 

“Why do you ask this?” Philip demanded. He 
must know what this great change meant. 

“I do not wonder you ask. But one thing would 
have broken my proud spirit. Philip, I can no 
longer close my eyes and deny the existence of what 
is so plain. I have seen the Christ in your life, and 
I believe.” 

The next instant the hands of the two men met 
in a long clasp. There was a brief silence, one of 
those spaces of time in which words are not needed. 
Philip drew forward two chairs. 

“Tell me all about it. Nay, wait a moment. I 
must become accustomed to this blessed truth.” 

Jerome Fields waited. Before the two stretched 


Philip’s Own 275 

the water of Little Travers Bay, its surface stirred 
by a slight breeze into thousands of tiny gleaming 
waves. Directly opposite, Harbor Point thrust its 
narrow, tree-covered curve out into the bay, and 
from among the green trees peered beautiful sum- 
mer homes. Off to the right a white-winged sail- 
boat glided over the water like a thing of life. All 
was calm and serene. 

‘T can find no words to express my joy!’^ Philip 
cried. “This is the one thing needed to fill my cup 
of happiness to the brim. Now I am ready to hear 
your story.’^ 

“Why, there is not much to tell. Phil, it has been 
a wretched year for me. I knew I was in the wrong. 
A rumor of Helen Abbot’s approaching marriage 
had reached me, and it stirred my heart, and the 
pain woke to new life. I said to myself that it was 
her mistaken idea of religion that had parted us, for 
I knew she had loved me. Evil rose up, hot and re- 
bellious, within me. I hated everything that re- 
minded me of what I had lost. It was in that mood 
that you found me, and I poured out my unjust 
wrath upon you.” 

“Do not think of that,” Philip said. “What has 
brought about this blessed change?” 

It was a moment before Jerome Fields replied. 
He sat looking over the bay, a subdued light in his 
eyes. 

“It is not easy to put my experience into words, 
my friend. When the fit of rage had passed I saw 
that something beyond yourself had sustained you. 


2/6 Entering Into His Own 

I had seen this before: in Rex’s willing surrender 
of life, in Helen’s devotion to the right, in your care 
of Doctor Mills — nay, in the countless acts of the 
Christians I met daily I had seen the Christ. Where 
was my boasted reason that I should close my eyes 
and deny the existence of what was self-evident. 
Again and again I came to that point, only to refuse 
to go further. But God’s spirit never left me. At 
last I acknowledged Christ as the Son of God, the 
One who gave his life for man’s sins. In the hour 
of acknowledgment a longing for his companionship 
took possession of me. I cried unto him, and he 
did not reject me.” 

It was some time before Philip told his friend of 
the book. Doctor Fields was overjoyed. 

“I knew from our president that you were en- 
gaged upon such a work, and I longed to hear all 
about it. Once, Philip, we talked of the day when 
I should aid you in this undertaking, but you did 
not need me.” 

Philip touched his arm. ‘‘I felt the need of your 
sympathy, but I was resolved to show you that I 
could do good work. Perhaps had I had you to 
lean upon I would never have subjected myself to 
the long hours of study and research that gave my 
book a solid foundation.” 

Doctor Fields’ face glowed as he listened to 
Philip’s description of the volume. 

“Philip, my new faith touches my chosen work 
with an added grace. Science is something more 
than classified knowledge. It is an understanding 


Philip’s Own 277 

of God’s laws for the universe. There is a wonder- 
ful, a mysterious congruity existing between man 
and the material world. Both are the works of 
God.” 

“I see what you mean. Rex used to quote from 
that seventeenth-century poet, George Herbert, 

‘O mighty love ! Man is one world and hath 
Another to attend him.’ 

Best of all, though, God gave man an immortal 
soul.” 

A half hour later Philip started up. “We have 
had no breakfast. I am my own maid, but I can give 
you a cup of coffee fit for a king, toast, and a fish I 
took from the bay myself. But there is something 
I must tell you first.” 

“That reminds me of what I came here for.” 

“What you came for ! I supposed that was to see 
me.” 

“I had two reasons for wanting to see you be- 
sides the love I bear you. I wanted to ask your 
forgiveness, and I have done that. Now I want to 
tell you that you have been appointed my assistant 
at Evanston for the next year.” 

“What?” 

“Oh, don’t look so incredulous! I assure you it 
is true. You remember Travis was the assistant 
instructor in zoology. Well, he resigned to accept 
a better position at Oberlin, and my request that the 
place be offered you met with instant approval. 


278 Entering Into His Own 

The salary is fair, with ample time for you to carry 
on your own studies/^ 

Philip had grown strangely pale. ‘Tt is the one 
place I would have asked for had the world been 
mine,” was all he could say. 

It was not until they sat opposite each other at 
breakfast that Philip looked across the table and 
said : 

“You have not mentioned Helen. The barrier 
between you two is removed. I said I had some- 
thing to tell you. Helen is at the village and will 
be here soon.” 

A wistful look came to the strong man’s face. 
“You know her well, Philip. Is it too late?” 

“I know her too well to ask that question. Helen 
Abbot’s heart is still yours.” 

When Helen came it was Philip who received her. 
He told her of the position offered him, of his rec- 
onciliation to Doctor Fields, and of the latter’s 
changed views. Helen hid her face in her hands, 
and Philip went on. 

“That is not all, dear sister. He is here, and I 
am going to leave him to tell you the rest.” 

He opened the door to admit Doctor Fields, then 
went out, leaving the lovers together. 

The trio lingered long at the village. The days 
were happy ones. Their present was unclouded, 
and the future that stretched before them was in 
God’s keeping. 

It was decided that Helen’s study abroad should 
be postponed for a couple of years, and then her 


Philip’s Own 279 

husband would go with her. They would be mar- 
ried in the fall and make for themselves a home in 
the college town of Evanston. 

As for Philip, the success he had won beckoned 
him on to greater achievements. The cottage 
should still be his home, the spot to which he would 
return to renew his companionship with nature 
whenever possible. 

He had found his own place in the world, a place 
among life’s workers. It held for him all that even 
his young mother could have asked. He had en- 
tered into his own, led thereby by God’s hand 
through the way he saw was best. 


THE END. 




Little Maid Marigold 

By ELEANOR H. STOOKE 

i2mo. 22^ pages. Illustrated .... 75<;. 

The pages of this charming story will be read by many 
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ELMCOVE 

By Mrs. HARRIET A. CHEEVER 

i2mo. ^^4 pages. Illustrated .... $1.2$ 

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read the story. It will not fail to do good wherever it is read. 


AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, NEW YORK 


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N ew Testament 
with Notes $L00 

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